


Doorways to Doubt

by kirargent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, F/F, Female Castiel, Female Castiel/Female Dean Winchester, Female Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2232540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since she was young, Castiel has been working alongside her brothers and sisters to make the world a safer place. By eliminating dangerous people, they protect those who are innocent. It’s a good fight, a noble cause: Castiel has never had any reason to question the guidance of her oldest brother.</p><p>When Castiel is given orders to break into a prison and free a woman named Deanna Winchester, she does so without hesitation—but doubt soon creeps in. Encouraged by Dean and by two of her own siblings, Castiel begins to second-guess orders, and to wonder if Michael’s goals are really as altruistic as they seem.</p><p>As her strange friendship with Dean grows, so do her doubts, and Castiel finds herself having to decide if she will support her brother as she always has, or protect her new family instead.</p><p>(Or, the one where both Castiel and Dean are humans, ladies, and serial killers, struggling together through a swamp of moral ambiguity.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First a big thank you to the mods of the [spnfemmminibang challenge](http://spnfemminibang.livejournal.com), both for organizing this awesome thing, and for being understanding when health things and deadlines clashed.
> 
> I want to thank my amazing amazing amazing AMAZING artist, [deerspats](http://deerspats.tumblr.com), who was super kind, easy to work with, and made some really really gorgeous pieces of art to accompany this fic! Please [go check them out](http://deerspats.tumblr.com/post/96727387958/story-by-casbunnies-art-by-deerspats-pairing)!
> 
> I had an amazing support system on tumblr (I'm looking at [Chelsey](http://castielnovak.tumblr.com), [Maddi](http://holyhael.tumblr.com), [Zara](http://buffysummerrs.tumblr.com), [Elia Winters](http://eliawinters.tumblr.com), and everyone else who encouraged me or helped make this fic better in some way)—I definitely couldn't have done this without you.
> 
> I think that's all I have to say, other than [GO LOOK AT THE LOVELY ART](http://deerspats.tumblr.com/post/96727387958/story-by-casbunnies-art-by-deerspats-pairing), and [go check out all the other fantastic fantastic fantastic fics written for this challenge](http://spnfemminibang.livejournal.com/tag/round%3A%202014)!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://casbunnies.tumblr.com) if you wanna say hi!

  _"My superiors feel I've begun to express emotions—the doorways to doubt."_

_-Castiel, 4.16 On the Head of a Pin_

  

Castiel grabs a hand towel from the passenger seat, fresh out of the package and so white it almost glows in the softening light of the evening. Meticulously, she wipes blood from between each of her fingers, face blank as she watches the white fabric suck up the rusty red. She folds the towel into a plastic bag when she's done, and tosses it back onto the seat.

She picks up a cell phone from the cup holder, tapping in the number of Anna's current burner phone. It rings once before Anna answers.

"She's out?" Anna asks immediately.

"Yes," says Castiel.

"Did you run into any problems?"

"One guard. I took care of it."

"Good."

There's a brief pause, and Castiel stares out the window of the stolen car, impassive as she takes in the sun-soaked surroundings of the South Dakota State Penitentiary.

"Rachel made arrangements for your travel?"

"Yes," Castiel says. "If all goes as planned, I should arrive home with The Hunter within a few days."

"Good," Anna says again, and it's followed with the distinct click of the line going dead.

Feeling sweat on her forehead, Castiel fits the key in the ignition and pulls onto the road, her only acknowledgement of the suffocating heat a subtle twitch of her mouth. She'd never dream of complaining, but she's looking forward to getting out of Sioux Falls.

They're only a few miles on their way when a furious banging starts up from the trunk, and Castiel allows herself to indulge in a weary sigh. She entertains thoughts of pumping her captive full of tranquilizers again, even though she can't risk running out before the trip is over. She forces her mouth into a flat, emotionless line, and consciously relaxes her features into the stone-calm expression she's been practicing all her life.

This "Hunter" had better be worth the trouble.

 

—

 

Castiel holds her hands behind her back as she observes her sister. The summer evening sun slants in from the large windows that make up the wall behind Anna's desk, haloing her vibrant red hair and illuminating shafts of dusty air in her office. It's a small room, and sparsely furnished, only containing a simple, dark-wooded desk with a single chair behind it.

Anna sits in the chair, eyes cast down at a thin sheaf of papers that she flips over one by one. Her suit jacket is draped neatly over the back of her chair. Her shoulders are straight, her posture stiffly proper as she scans the papers, but Castiel can see weariness written around her dark eyes. She hasn't acknowledged Castiel with more than a nod, despite having called for her nearing fifteen minutes ago. Though Anna is Castiel's sister through adoption, they interact as co-workers, bound together by business as much or more than by their familial tie.

Castiel rolls her head relieve an ache in her neck, twitches her nose against the dust floating in the room, and returns to stillness to wait. Years of training grant her face an easy calm.

Anna doesn't look up until she's reached the bottom of the stack and folded the papers into a manila folder. "Castiel," she says then, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands on the desk. "I trust you've rested since your last duty."

Castiel inclines her head in a respectful nod. She's spent the three days since her return cleaning her weapons, training with Uriel, and helping Rachel manage paperwork. It's been restful in comparison to her time working.

She lifts her head to see Anna nodding her approval. "Good," she says, watching Castiel with thoughtful eyes. 

Castiel has to wait another long moment before Anna speaks again. 

"Deanna Winchester," she starts. "Twenty nine year-old ex-military nobody, dubbed 'The Hunter' when she hunted down and killed the six people she held responsible for her sister's death." Castiel absorbs the information carefully, though not all of it is new. Anna wouldn't be telling her this without a reason. "Do you know much about her?" Anna asks.

"Not more than you've told me," Castiel admits.

"That's fine," Anna says, resting the tips of her fingers on the folder of papers from a moment ago and sliding it to the far edge of her desk. There's a gentle smile on her lips as she looks up at Castiel. "There's more information in this folder. It's yours to take when we're done here."

"Thank you."

"I'm glad you've rested," Anna continues, "because Michael has another job for you."

Castiel had expected as much when Anna called for her.

"He's sending our newest asset on a little outing," Anna says. Her dark eyes are intent on Castiel, and Castiel is extra careful to keep any traces of surprise off her face.

"She's agreed to cooperate so soon?"

Anna hesitates. "Not exactly." She leans back in her chair, elbows on the wooden arms of the chair and hands folded. "That's why you're going along."

"I'm sorry?"

"Rachel picked something up while you were away." Anna extends an arm and pulls open the top drawer of her desk, then lifts her hand to show Castiel the dime-sized device she retrieved. Castiel exhibits a subdued, respectful amount of interest. "It's a tracker," Anna tells her. "Handy little thing, goes straight into Deanna's arm and transmits her location to this." She pulls a small black box from the drawer and places it on the desk, followed by a short USB cord. "Plug it into your computer and you can see where she is."

She leans back in her chair again. "You're expected to follow Deanna closely. Michael needs to know how she operates, and what motivates her. You are to observe her assiduously. We'll need her cooperation in the future, and anything you can learn about her will help. You are to watch her carefully, but not interfere—unless she runs for it, in which case you are expected to catch her and convince her to do her job. Failing that, you'll complete the task yourself and return here with her as soon as possible. Make sense?"

Castiel gives Anna a curt nod, and a thin smile blooms across her lips.

"Good," she says. "You'll leave first thing in the morning. Rachel will have cars waiting in the driveway, and Deanna will have the tracker inserted before you meet her." She nudges the receiver for the tracker closer to the edge of the desk with her knuckles. "You're dismissed." Castiel gives her sister another respectful nod before she picks up the folder of information and the tracker and leaves, even though Anna has already shifted her attention to a new stack of papers on her desk with a tired sigh.

It's quiet outside Anna's office, the air thick with a silence provided by soundproof walls. The only sound comes from Castiel's modest dress shoes clicking on the dark tile floor as she walks through the hallway of Michael's Illinois base. It's just a big house in a quiet neighborhood, really, if you don't mention the extensive armory on the second floor, or the holding cells in the basement, or the fact that the walls are soundproofed to keep in the screams of Michael's information sources.

The door of Castiel's room is closed, as she left it, and it shuts again with a quiet click behind her. She places the folder and the tracker on her bedside table to change out of her black dress suit into well-worn flannel pajamas.

"Rachel will have cars ready" means Rachel will have transportation for the both of them, along with maps to get them where they're going and weapons and supplies for their task. Castiel pulls a small rolling bag from under her bed, folding into it clothes for three days, topped by her computer and the tracking system with its cord; the only additional weapons she plans to bring will be hidden somewhere on her person in the morning.

She climbs into bed, and by the buttery-warm light of her bedside lamp, flips open Deanna's file. 

A mugshot tops the stack of papers, poorly-lit but still managing to capture the cocky shine in Deanna's eyes and the ridiculous Blue Steel pout of her full lips. A bruise marks her jaw, not quite concealed by the sandy hair that hangs down to her shoulders. She looks rougher for it, harsh despite the delicacy of her thin nose and defined lips.

There's just over a page of information on her childhood: mundane, simple, the hard but good lives of a working class family.

The next few papers detail her time in the military. She was a good solider, followed orders well, made good choices quickly when under pressure. She enlisted after the death of her mother and sent checks home to her surviving sister and father, and left three years later with a hardship discharge to become her sister's legal guardian after their father's death.

The amount of detail increases the closer the information gets to the present. An official, thorough police report is included for each one of her crimes, as well as one for the murder of her sister, and Castiel reads them carefully, long past the point of wondering how Michael has access to confidential files.

Samantha Winchester (more often called Sam), aspiring South Dakotan lawyer and Deanna's last surviving family member, was stabbed after she took part in a case against the leader of a small crime syndicate. After being locked up, the man known most widely as "Z," put a target on young Sam's back, and had his sentence extended for his part in her death, though a young man named Jake Talley was the one to wield the knife. Jake was caught and jailed as well, sentenced for life.

 _Ava Wilson_ was Deanna's first kill. A young secretary from Peoria, Ava also had a surprising nightlife as a hit-woman that came to light during the investigation of her death. It's suspected that she'd heard the call for Sam's death and targeted her, thus labeling herself guilty in Deanna's eyes. Her body was found in bed beside her fiancé, both of them with gun wounds from a custom Colt Paterson (registered to Deanna's father) in their foreheads.

Victim number three was a girl just-turned eighteen, Sam's secretary, presumably the one who let Jake into Sam's office. Amanda Masters was found at her desk with a matching fatal bullet wound.

The Hunter's next three victims fell in quick succession, and share a police report, labeled together as one crime. Gordon Walker, a prison guard at the South Dakota State Penitentiary, was killed almost silently with a wire garrote, his regulation PR 24 baton and his keys then stolen from his body and used minutes later to beat Andrew Zazel, "Z", to death in his cell. She used the keys twice more: once to enter Jake Talley's cell, and once more to unlock the office of warden Luke Morningstar. She left Jake's bodiless head on the warden's desk before taking her leave of the prison, to return, poetically, four weeks later to a cell of her own.

There's a short paragraph of information on the bounty hunter who brought her in, though it lacks a description or a picture. There's just a name—"Victor Henricksen"—and a brief listing of other criminals he's apprehended.

The three pages that follow contain categorized lists of evidence, and the whole stack is ended by a brief summary of Deanna's trial and subsequent sentencing. The information that her life-sentencing was cut short by Castiel has not yet reached this compilation.

It would do her well to reread the file more carefully, but Castiel's eyelids feel heavy, and it would be unwise to be unrested when she begins her task with Deanna. Hand on the knife under her pillow, Castiel lets sleep take her.

 

The alarm beside her bed goes off, as it always does, at ten to six. She swings her legs out of bed, stands, and walks to the bathroom, motions done so many times they're worn into her body. The shower is too hot when she steps in, but she doesn't adjust the temperature. Water hits her skin in streams that are more numbing than painful, and when she gets out it's with splotched-red skin and considerably more energy. Wet hair gets twisted into an efficient bun at the nape of her neck before it can drip on anything, and she drags mascara over her eyelashes to complete the businesswoman look. She pulls a suit from her closet: black slacks and a matching fitted jacket, and a white button-down underneath. She tucks a knife into a sheath on her ankle, shaking out the leg of her slacks to hide it. Another knife goes into a reinforced pocket inside her jacket. Rachel will have stored her pre-packed bag of guns in the car in case she needs them—but she hopes she won't.

When a quick check in the mirror shows that her weapons are concealed and her suit is unwrinkled, she bends at the knees to grab the handle of her bag, picks up the folder on Deanna, and locks her room before she leaves.

Deanna is in the driveway already when Castiel steps outside. Hard eyes trap Castiel in a tense stare, cold and analytic. The diluted morning sun picks out flecks of gold in the bottle green of those irises, makes The Hunter's light brown hair shine almost straw gold. Light bounces from the polished surface of the Camry Rachel presumably stole for her, piercing Castiel's vision with too-bright sparks. Deanna leans on the car, dressed in a black henley and blue jeans, also no doubt provided by Rachel. Her posture is casual, but it's clear she's on edge: she could be on her feet and moving with one simple movement; drawing the gun tucked in her waistband would take just as short a time.

Castiel resists the temptation to grip the knife hidden within her jacket. "Hello, Deanna," she says, stopping at the driver's door of the Mazda Rachel has stolen for her, medium-sized and metallic blue.

Deanna's lips twist into something displeased. "Don't call me that."

"I'm not going to call you by your other moniker, if that's what you're after."

Deanna shakes her head. "Just 'Dean,' okay?"

Castiel dips her head in agreement. "All right."

Dean is staring at her when she looks up, mouth settled in a thoughtful pout. They're both quiet for a moment, eyes locked.

Dean shifts her weight to the other leg and squints when she speaks. "So, road-trip-buddy. You got a name?"

Castiel hesitates only briefly. "Castiel," she shares.

Dean raises her eyebrows, but doesn't comment.

It's quiet for a moment, the only sound coming from the grand elm trees in Michael's front yard, rustling softly in the languid summer breeze. The trees were planted as much for their thick-leaved blockage of the front windows as for the decorative, suburban appearance they offer.

Dean scuffs her shoe—boot, actually, sturdy, brown, made for hiking—and it's loud, in the silence. Her voice is even louder, cutting through the air. "What does your boss want with me?" Her eyes are narrowed with so much suspicion that she's almost glaring, but Castiel just stares back, calm and impassive. "Hell, how do you even know I'm the girl for your job? I mean, before last month, maybe five people in the world could pick me out of a crowd." She pauses, chuckles, more dark than amused. "It's funny what killing a few people will do for your fame."

"Six people," Castiel clarifies. "You killed six people in cold blood."

"Cold blood," Dean laughs, "right."

Castiel ignores this. "And we don't know that you're the one we need. That's what this little road trip is all about. You perform, we watch, and then we decide how to deal with you."

"Yeah, and I'm the cold-blooded one." Dean shakes her head and pushes away from the car, tugging open the door and sliding inside.

Castiel is quick to do the same. She has to pick up another manila folder from the seat before she sits down. The car lacks the distinctive smell of a new car; it smells lemon-y—freshly cleaned, but not freshly bought.

After tossing her bag into the backseat and checking that Dean is occupied inspecting the inventory of the black duffel bag she's retrieved from the passenger seat, Castiel flips the folder open. There's a pale yellow sticky note, covered in Anna's neat writing, stuck on top of a thin stack of papers. _Observe, don't interfere_ , it says. _I'm only providing you with this information in case Deanna does not follow through._ A brief skim of the papers reveals them to be all the information on Dean's job; Castiel learns that her mark is someone named Tracy Davis in Des Moine, Iowa. Tracy is young, blond, and smiling in the picture that rests atop the papers. Castiel looks at Tracy's bright face for a moment, then closes the folder and sets it on the passenger seat. This is Dean's job, not hers.

She twists behind the wheel to check for her nondescript gun bag. Tucked under the seat, it's where it should be. So are the maps in the glove compartment, but Castiel closes it without opening them: she'll be following Dean.

Everything in order, Castiel buckles her seatbelt, turns the key in the ignition, and alternates looking at Dean and watching the digital clock flick all the way from 6:52 to 7:01. When Dean finally pulls out in a screech of tires, Castiel follows.

She follows for more than four hours. Iowa sharing a border with Illinois makes for a relatively short drive, but it's still tiring thanks to Dean's preferred mode of driving: reckless. Castiel keeps up with every too-sharp turn and surprise freeway exit all the way to Des Moine, and then further.

She watches as Dean eats fast food for lunch, and follows as Dean makes several stops around town, all too brief for Castiel to tail her into the buildings. Then she follows Dean to a small house on the edge of town. 

She watches Dean converse with a man in a suit with stringy brown hair, and catches brief sight of a blond-haired girl within the house. Tracy, maybe? Is it possible that Dean found her so quickly? Anna didn't tell Castiel how difficult this job was intended to be; it's possible that Castiel is just supposed to observe her on a simple case. Whether because it's not Tracy, or because she plans to return later, Dean says goodbye and heads back to her car without venturing inside the house.

Castiel slides into traffic behind Dean and trails a block behind until Dean stops at a huge hotel on the north edge of town. Castiel follows still as Dean grabs her bags and checks in, and she's able to book a room of her own. Room 411, only a few doors down from Dean in room 416.

The hotel is grander than the places Castiel usually stays. The elevators are huge, with blue marble tiled floors and walls covered in dark, swirled wallpaper. On the fourth floor, the doors part in front of a large open space, wallpapered the same as the elevators from the light-wooded wainscoting up to the high ceiling. Following the wall up, Castiel gazes with mild interest at a chandelier that takes up most of the space above her, all strong iron and delicate, decorative glass. Her eyes fall again to land on a door directly across from the elevators, white and nondescript with a tall, thin window above a neatly lettered sign that says: _Stairs_. Frosted sconces line the walls, coating everything in soft, warm light. It's welcoming, Castiel supposes absently, though of course that's irrelevant to her task and to her comfort: she won't be comfortable again until Dean is out of her care.

If Michael asked for her specifically, Dean has to be important; Castiel cannot risk losing her.

Her room is much the same as the rest of the hotel: large, cleanly attractive, and featuring considerably fewer exits than Castiel would care for. There's only one window, large and directly opposite the door. The carpet is pristine white beneath her feet, and more sconces cast long, soft-edged shadows across the white-sheeted bed and the dark table beside it. Another table is tucked in the corner beside a TV and refrigerator, a chair tucked underneath.

Sliding her keycard into her pocket, Castiel deposits one of the duffel bags on the table and unzips it.

Setting up the tracker is easier than she had anticipated. A grid map pops up on her screen automatically as soon as it's connected. A pulsing red dot shows Dean's location, and a blue one, almost overlapping it, shows Castiel's.

That taken care of, Castiel tucks her clothes bag and the empty bag out of the way against the wall, and tosses the duffel with the weapons onto the bed. Unzipping it reveals her extensive collection of guns and knives (more knives than guns, because guns are flashy and loud and messy). Satisfied, she closes the bag and pushes it under the bed before returning to the hardwood chair at the table.

She's barely sat down and opened Tracy's file before a sharp knock comes from the door. Wary, she draws her knife, holds it out of sight behind her back as she approaches the door.

"Hello?" she calls.

Whoever it is, they don't answer.

Holding the weapon in her right hand, Castiel slides open the chain lock and turns the handle. The door swings inwards, making her step back, knife hidden but ready.

"Heya, Cas," Dean says, smirking.

Castiel blinks.

"Dean," she starts, even as Dean steps past her into the room.

Dean lets out a low whistle. "These rooms are something else, man."

Castiel watches her closely, following her eyes as she takes in the tasteful lights and the soft-colored walls and the neatly made bed. The tracker catches her attention. Castiel is quick behind her as she approaches it, leaning over, curious.

"This how you're keepin' tabs on me?" Absentminded fingers rub at the inside of her left forearm, where a soft red mark still lingers.

It's obvious what's attached to Castiel's laptop; there's no advantage to be gained by lying. "Yes," is Castiel's simple answer. She does, however, grip Dean's shoulder to guide her away from the computer and any information she might hope to glean from it. "Why are you in my room?"

Dean sighs, and flops backwards onto the bed with her arms spread to her sides. Her hair, unbound, puffs out behind her head, more brown than blond against the white of the sheets. "Bored," she says, raising her eyebrows. "Lonely. I don't know."

"You shouldn't be here."

Dean lifts her arms just to let them thump back down against the mattress. "Yeah, well. I'm here anyway."

Castiel presses her lips together. Anna's words are in her head: _Observe. Don't interfere._

Well, she's been observing. She's been observing all day, and she's learned next to nothing. She's learned that Dean drives like a mad woman, and that she favors extravagant living when she's on someone else's dime—but that's not what Michael will be interested in: it will be of no use in convincing her to play along.

Letting go of the urge to sigh and threaten Dean until she leaves the room, Castiel tucks the knife away and turns the chair around from the desk to sit facing Dean. The position affords her a first-class view of Dean's spread legs, feet on the floor and knees bent. She's not looking at Castiel, doesn't seem to care about decency, but Castiel focuses her gaze on the corner of the bed anyway.

"Have you located Tracy?"

Dean sits up, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her legs. "Why?"

Castiel lets herself look at Dean again, careful to keep her attention on her face. "I'm curious about your progress." Dean narrows her eyes, and Castiel feels her lips twitch with annoyance. "You're the one who barged into my room claiming to be bored and lonely, are you not?"

That gets her an eyeroll. "Yeah, okay," Dean sighs. "I found her."

"And do you have a plan to kill her?"

Dean makes a face. "No."

"Trouble?" Castiel asks. An air of sympathy colors her tone, hopefully not sounding too false.

"No, no trouble," Dean grates out, lips still twisted with disdain. "But, uh. This girl hasn't friggin' done anything."

Castiel narrows her eyes, struggling to process Dean's words. Dean knows where Tracy is. She has encountered no trouble. Her orders are to kill Tracy, but she isn't planning to. "I don't see the problem," Castiel says slowly.

Dean looks at her, eyebrows raised. "Why would I kill her? She's just a bright-eyed new intern at a fancy law firm downtown. She's innocent, Cas; I don't want her blood on my hands."

Castiel can feel a frown tugging at her lips, tugging her brow into a displeased, confused squint. Years of training make it easy to fight, to hold her face calm. "And?" she prompts.

Dean's eyes widen further. "Are you serious? I'm not gonna kill some poor girl without a reason!"

"You do have reason," Castiel grinds out. "You have orders."

Dean huffs out a disbelieving laugh. "Orders. You think I'm gonna kill her because some asshat I haven't even met gave me orders? Yeah, okay, Cas," she snorts.

A small frown breaks the control, creasing Castiel's forehead. She doesn't understand, and Dean is mocking her. She will slit her older brother's throat before accepting a babysitting job ever again.

This "Hunter" is, without a doubt, more trouble than she's worth. There's nothing she's capable of that Castiel is not. There's Rachel, too; despite having never worked a field job before, Rachel could've done this job. She would've been quick, independent, and caused no trouble. This, this is... a waste of Castiel's time. A waste of resources. The risk of Dean screwing something up and exposing the operation that's been well-hidden for decades is too great. The value does not outweigh the risk.

Her family's work is _important_. By eliminating dangerous people, they keep the rest of the population safe—and Dean could jeopardize all of it.

Castiel flexes her fingers, then curls them into a fist, slowly, intentionally. If she must externalize her frustration, she can at least keep it controlled.

"If you don't intend to kill her, how do you plan to proceed?" she asks, voice even, careful.

"Hell if I know."

Castiel's fingers twitch.

She gives Dean a moment, waiting to see if she'll speak, then says, "You do have to kill her."

Dean wrinkles her nose. "So you keep saying."

Then she's silent again.

Castiel suppresses a noise of irritation. "How would you do it?"

Dean huffs out a quick sigh. "Dunno. Bullet to the brains, probably." She pats the waistband of her jeans, where Cas can just see the bulge of a pistol. "Wish you guys'd gotten me my gun back," she says, eyebrows raised.

And that, that is off-topic, and unhelpful, and if Dean doesn't cooperate, Castiel will be blamed. "Maybe if you cared to complete even a single job, you'd have more privilege," Castiel snaps, and then promptly sits up straight in her chair, blinking, but determined not to show surprise now that she's already slipped and expressed frustration.

All Dean does is roll her eyes, which makes sense: it was a tiny display of irritation, so common as to be insignificant. But for Castiel? That was a huge breach of composure. She doesn't do irritation. Yes, she _projects_ irritation at times, when it's beneficial to her goals and when it's distributed under her control. But she doesn't just _slip_.

Ruffled, she leans back in her chair, folding her hands together carefully and crossing her legs. Dean does not speak. Castiel, confused apprehension clogging her throat, does not either.

It might be the utter completeness of the silence that makes the knock on the door so startling.

In any case, it sends Dean springing to her feet, drawing her gun with a practiced hand, and Castiel's hand flies to the knife handle inside her suit jacket. With slow, careful movements, she stands up. Whoever it is, they wouldn't have knocked if their aim was to catch Dean and Castiel off guard. She motions one-handed for Dean to lower her gun, and is pleased when Dean conceals it behind her back. With a quick nod, Castiel makes her way to the door, hand half raised for easy access to her knife as she opens it.

"Hello?" she says, quickly establishing that she doesn't know these people and that they appear to pose no immediate threat. "Can I help you?"

There's two of them, a man and a woman, dressed like housekeeping, though without any sign of a supply cart.

"Yes," the man says, "I think you can." He's taller than the woman, burly where she is slim, dark-skinned where she is light, imposing where she is wispy.

And that's when Castiel hears shattering glass, the suddenly increased volume of the street outside, and several consecutive thumps. Hand sliding inside her jacket to grip the hilt of her knife, she spins around to check on Dean—but Dean is not there. What _is_ there is a window with a human-sized hole in the middle. Castiel's free hand curls into a fist as she starts for the other side of the room, decision already made: she has to follow. She can't observe Dean's behavior properly if she can't see her, not to mention the possibility of Dean cutting out the tracker and bolting if she knows she has a head start.

"Damn it," the man growls, from behind now as Castiel climbs out the window one leg at a time. "That was her. Go, go, back down the stairs!"

It crosses Castiel's mind to worry about these people, unknown variables in an already risky equation. It's only a brief thought though, partly because going after them would be "interfering, not observing," and partly because she's already out the window. A small external sill gives her a place to balance while she extracts her arms from the room, careful to avoid the broken glass, and finds a tiny ledge at the top of the window to hang onto. She twists her neck carefully to the left, and starts to move almost as soon as she sees the fire escape one window over. Dean must've known about it, seen it from the parking lot and counted the windows, maybe.

Careful shuffling to the end of the window doesn't leave much room for internal berating, but Castiel makes it work.

She should've made sure she was aware of every possible escape, both for her own safety and for the sake of keeping up with Dean. She would've gotten around to checking the window soon, had Dean not interrupted her—but that's no excuse. She should've left Dean outside, or continued familiarizing herself with the surroundings while Dean was in the room. She'll have to be fast to make up for the oversight.

Thanks to consistent speed training, Castiel makes it down the fire escape just in time to see a flash of Dean's boots before she disappears around the corner of the building. Castiel forces herself to leave the knife concealed inside her jacket—no need to arouse suspicion—even as she hurries after.

When she rounds the corner, she's gained just enough ground to see Dean run... back into the hotel? Her fingers curl reflexively, as if around the handle of her knife. She jogs to the front doors, follows Dean inside, tries not to look too suspicious running around in her business suit. At least her shoes are practical: dress shoes, but soft-soled and durable.

Dean is waiting outside the elevator door. Her leg bounces with impatience; her eyes dart around anxiously.

Castiel speeds up, but the elevator is already opening, and the fancy lobby is just too big. The doors are closing in front of Dean when Castiel is only halfway to her.

The stairs, then. Castiel changes course.

The stairwell is considerably less grand than the rest of the interior of the hotel. The walls are whitewashed, peeling, stained. The stairs themselves are made of concrete, cracked in places and discolored in others. A metal rail lines the wall at waist height. 

Castiel's shoes are loud in the enclosed space, bouncing around the hard surfaces. It makes it harder to think. Frustration is already clouding her thoughts—frustration at herself for letting Dean escape, frustration at her brother for sending her on this ridiculous task, frustration at—at whoever those people were who spooked Dean.

But she has to focus. Has to think.

Dean's most obvious action would be to return to her room for more weaponry or supplies before a second attempt at fleeing. Is that too obvious? Maybe she's headed for the roof. Maybe her goal is Castiel's room, with its weapons and—and the tracking system. Taking it with her or tossing it out the fourth-floor window would be quicker than stopping to rip the device out of her arm. If Dean disables the computer system, she can run and Castiel will have no idea where to even start looking.

All right. Fourth floor.

Castiel watches the numbers go past on the exit doors: a big black 1, a big black 2, a big black 3, stark against the dirty white of the doors. She urges her legs faster, feels her muscles warmed with exertion but not yet straining. She's in better shape than Dean—though she's unsure of Dean's skill in combat—if she can just reach the fourth floor before those elevator doors open...

She doesn't make it in time.

But someone else did.

Catching sight of the woman from earlier through the tall window in the stairwell door, Castiel freezes. Dean is out of the elevator, but barely; she stands with her back against the wall beside it, hands raised near her ears, gun no longer in her waistband but on the floor a few feet away. There's another gun in the hands of the woman, trained at the center of Dean's forehead.

The door that Castiel presses her ear against is thick, but not quite thick enough to block sound.

"What, you gonna shoot me?"

Dean's voice.

Castiel angles her head to see out the window and listen at the same time.

"Yeah," the woman says, "that's the plan."

Castiel watches her flick the safety off. Her own hand twitches for the knife in her jacket; she presses her shoulder automatically against the door, ready to push it open—but no, that's not right. _Observe, don't interfere_. It takes a conscious, forceful effort to relax her body. She takes a slow breath in through her nose to center herself again, to force away the fighting instincts. If Dean dies, it's her own fault, and Castiel does not have to answer for it. If that woman shoots her, this miserable job will be over. Relaxing is easier, with that thought.

The two women seem to be staring each other down, Dean's eyes hard, the other woman's shoulders tight.

"Go on," Dean says. Speaking more quietly, she's harder to hear through the door. "You want to kill an innocent woman, you go right on ahead."

The woman laughs. "Innocent? _Innocent_? You're anything but innocent."

Dean shrugs. "Maybe in your opinion."

"Yeah, in my opinion! And my opinion is the one that matters, since I'm the one holding the gun!" She brandishes it wildly. "And apparently in a few other people's opinions, too, since you got locked up with six accounts of first degree murder."

Dean shrugs again. "Yeah, I killed some people—but you know what? They deserved to die."

"You're crazy," the woman spits. "I won't listen to this." She brings up a second hand to steady the gun, leveling her aim—and then jerks slightly, startled, at the voice of her companion coming down the hall.

"Meg! _Meg_! Stop, God damn it!"

Castiel can't see him yet, only sees the woman half turn away from Dean to address him.

"I'm doing this," she says, cold. "Nothing you say is going to stop me."

"Damn it, Meg. You help me find her, I bring her in, we split the money—that was our deal." He's in sight now. He takes big steps to place himself in front of Dean, shielding her from Meg—he doesn't stand too close, though; he keeps several yards of lavish blue carpet between himself and the possibly-deranged serial killer he's after. A faint red tinges his dark cheeks as he glowers at Meg. "We don't get a reward if you shoot the girl."

"I don't want the damn reward money, Victor! I want _revenge_. She _killed my sister_."

Victor sighs, exasperation offset by the tight, worried way he holds himself. "Meg. You need to calm down." Castiel watches the expressive features of his face twist into something that suggests he's not at all pleased to have to deal with this. It's an almost sarcastic expression, one that says he has better things to do with his time, he has no desire to soothe this woman, he did not ask for this, thank you.

Castiel watches his struggle to remain reasonable, watches the work of his jaw and the tight press of his lips together—and then watches Dean scoot two tiny steps to the left. To the left—towards her gun. With narrowed eyes, Castiel watches Dean drop to the ground. Meg follows the movement with her gun. Victor shouts and leaps forwards to stop her before she shoots, and Dean's fingers close around her own gun. She twists to aim up at the ceiling as Victor and Meg grapple, and Meg gets her gun free and pointed at Dean but Dean's already shooting at the chain that holds up the chandelier.

Before Meg can do anything, a mass of iron and glass is coming down on her with a crash.

Her pained shriek rings out, then a lower, grumbled curse, and Castiel sees Victor, legs pinned by a loop of iron, an arm reaching out and a frustrated snarl on his face.

And Dean, Dean barely pauses to smirk at them before she's off down the hall.

The door gives easily to Castiel's shoulder, and she rushes to catch up with Dean before curious eyes are drawn out by the commotion. Castiel's shoes are quiet on the carpeted floor. Dean doesn't seem to notice her, only looking forward, walking straight and fast with an air of forced calm. Castiel slows her steps when she's several yards behind Dean, adopting a similar, non-attention-drawing calm.

Dean enters her own room without looking back, letting the door swing behind her. It almost closes, but Castiel hurries forward and catches it, stepping inside before letting it shut.

The room is almost identical to Castiel's: simple, elegant, clean.

From the bed, Dean grabs her provided duffle bags—one with clothes, one with weapons and other related supplies. She slings them over one shoulder and turns to the door in the same motion, freezing when her eyes land on Castiel.

She hesitates.

Castiel does not.

It only takes a few jogged steps to close the space between them, and Dean doesn't try to run. She does try to twist away when Castiel grabs her upper arm, but Castiel tightens her grip, and Dean winces and stills.

She takes the duffle bags from Dean with her free hand and carries them over her own shoulder, rough-handling Dean in front of her, across the hall and into her own room.

Her thoughts move fast, familiar and comfortable in a tense situation: They have to get out of here before the cops show up. They have to find somewhere else to stay while Dean completes the job. Most problematically, Dean has expressed resistance to fulfilling her orders. And, Castiel caught Dean in the middle of an escape attempt: she'll have to keep close watch to ensure she doesn't try again.

First, they have to get clear of the crime scene.

Inside her own room, Castiel pauses to plan her next actions. Dean was trying to escape: Castiel can't trust her to walk out on her own. There's bound to be at least one tranquilizer in the bag from Rachel, and probably zip-ties in the side pocket, though Castiel didn't check for those before. If she uses a tranquilizer now she risks running out, and that seems a bit drastic—but what other choice does she have? If she binds Dean's hands there's more chance for her to escape, and she'd be conscious to make a scene on the way out. Castiel could zip-tie one of her hands with Dean's and scale over to the fire escape again, but all Dean would have to do would be drop backwards and Castiel would be dragged with her.

The tranquilizers are probably the only option she has.

She studies Dean for a moment, hoping to see behind those green eyes, but Dean's face is a lifeless plane of resignation.

"Go on," Castiel murmurs, handling Dean in front of her to the bed. She's careful to keep Dean in sight as she snags the handle of her duffle bag from under the bed and unzips, digs through it one-handed, but Dean doesn't make any attempt to get away.

There. It's in a syringe, cold plastic a distinctive shape under Castiel's searching hand. Her fingers close around it. It's a trick to work the cap off with only one hand, and then more effort to keep the needle away from Dean's skin while she feels the side of her throat with practiced fingers. Dean, for some unnerving reason, holds perfectly still, perfectly silent, face perfectly blank and lips pressed together.

Castiel does not understand this woman.

She positions the needle against Dean's carotid artery and depresses the plunger.

Dean's lips twitch. Her skin is almost fever-hot against Castiel's hand, her pulse a distinct throb, warm and alive.

Castiel pulls the needle out. She thumbs away the dab of blood that beads on Dean's skin, unsure why she does it.

Dean's eyelids begin to droop in short order, then drop closed even as her lips drop half open. She sways on her feet for a moment, blinks her eyes almost open, briefly, with what appears to be Herculean effort, and grabs at Castiel's arm; Castiel moves to shake her off, but Dean just uses her as a steadying post, so Castiel lets her cling with tight fingers above her elbow until she sags forwards. Close to the bed already, Castiel steps aside with just an arm around Dean's stomach to guide her gently onto the bed, face-down but with room to breathe.

She looks down at Dean with a thin frown. She'll have to gather both their things now. Dean's bags are already packed, at least, but Castiel will have to carry it all outside, as well as carry Dean, then find a new place to stay and repeat the whole process, because Tracy is not dead yet. Ah, and she has to convince Dean to do her job. No one would begrudge Castiel her sour expression as she repacks her bags, retrieving scattered knives and coiling computer cords; she replaces the tracking system carefully in its bag.

She leaves a sedated Dean on the bed with the door locked while she carries the bags downstairs, locking them in the car with quick motions.

The foyer outside the elevators on the fourth floor is crowded with people: curious bystanders; high-level hotel staff; a man who seems to be a doctor crouched amidst the broken glass. Castiel manages to slip by without anyone stopping her. The hall gets less busy as she approaches her room, clear enough for her to crack the door open and slide inside without drawing unwanted attention.

After the organized flurry of tasks she's just completed, Castiel has an acute awareness of the seconds ticking by as she stands still, peering thoughtfully down at Dean. It's a necessary, if regrettable pause. She must think of an excuse, a reason to be carrying an unconscious woman out to her car, a reason that won't draw suspicion from the throng of people just outside her door.

Dean is a friend who had too much to drink, maybe.

It's calming to nerves that Castiel hadn't even realized were agitated to start moving again, flipping Dean onto her back and lifting her with an arm under her knees and the other supporting her back. Her head lolls backwards, hair falling with it, mouth still half open.

Castiel is stopped twice on her way out the door: once by a woman who rushes forward to ask, "Is she all right? We heard a crash from upstairs..." and once by a hotel employee who says she hopes they "had a good stay" with a knowing little smile; both of them are satiated by Castiel's planned excuse.

They make it to Castiel's stolen Mazda with no incident, the seatbelt and the stacked bags beside the seat hold Dean upright in the back, and Castiel pulls out of the lot with only a tiny amount of frustration at the fact that they've accomplished nothing so far.

 

The motel room is much shabbier than the hotel, but the water-stained walls and the faint scent of mold are familiar to Castiel, almost soothing as she skims Tracy's file, one eye always on Dean, who is sprawled across the other bed. The air conditioner lends the small room the undercurrent of a mechanical buzz, just loud enough to cover the soft sounds of Dean's breath and to grate on Castiel's attention. It's been two hours and—Castiel checks the cheap digital alarm clock that rests on the table between the two beds—two hours and thirty-two minutes since she administered the sedative, and the dose was not large: Dean should be waking, soon.

They will have to discuss this altered situation they're in. Dean's orders still stand, as do Castiel's, but things are more complicated if Dean is resistant to killing the mark—and if she intends to escape. Not only will Castiel have to convince Dean, somehow, to complete her orders, she also must keep her within sight or risk losing her. Wonderful. She gets to reason with a woman she isn't even close to understanding, and then try to anticipate her every move.

Castiel has dealt with unforeseen circumstances before. She has improvised when all her resources and weapons were stolen. She has followed through on the vaguest of orders. She has finished jobs that took her across the country when she shouldn't even have had to leave the state.

What concerns Castiel is _Dean_ , and that concern has only a small amount to do with her attempt at escape. No, Castiel is concerned because Dean doesn't make sense. She doesn't intend to kill Tracy, even though she could. She didn't fight when Castiel caught up to her in the hotel. She cooperates, but then she doesn't, and then she does, and there's no obvious reason for any of it, and Castiel is confused, and she doesn't like confusion. Confusion means the mark gets away; confusion means incomplete analysis; confusion means she will be unprepared for something; confusion means _mistakes_.

Dean wakes with an inelegant sound, somewhere between a snore and a snuffle. She starts to jerk upright, then notices Castiel sitting on the edge of the other bed, and sinks back down. Green eyes flick around the room, face open but expressionless.

"What'd you give me?" She doesn't bother looking at Castiel, instead stares up at the popcorn ceiling.

"A mild sedative."

Dean glances at her, one eyebrow raised.

"The effects should wear off completely in a few minutes," Castiel assures her.

Dean looks back to the ceiling.

It's quiet, save for the hum of the AC.

Castiel watches the hard red numbers of the clock flick from 3:37 to 3:38.

Idle blue eyes drift around the room, idle thoughts flitting in and leaving as soon as they've been processed. One of them sticks.

"Why didn't you resist?"

Dean rolls her shoulders in a languid shrug, which is interesting to watch, as she's still lying down. "There's nothing out there for me anymore," she says after a pause.

Castiel frowns. "Then why try to escape at all?"

"I'm not killing some innocent little girl for you." She says it with determination, but with more weariness than anger. "And now that I'm out, I'm not goin' back to prison. Company's better out here, if I'm being honest."

Castiel's frown deepens. "I'm your only company here."

Dean lets free a laugh, startling in its volume. "Yeah, Cas. You sure are." Castiel opens her mouth narrows her eyes—is she being mocked?—but Dean is speaking again. "So," she says. "How'd you get us outta there?"

It takes a moment for Castiel to orient herself with the new direction of conversation. Fast decisions in moments of action are practiced and easy, but the quick subtleties of human connection can often be hard to keep up with.

Dean sighs, shifting her weight on the bed and folding her hands over her stomach. She drops her head to the side to stare at Castiel. "Come on, man. Somebody had to notice you carrying a body out of a damn crime scene."

"It hadn't been labeled a crime scene yet."

Dean snorts. "Technicalities, huh?" When Castiel doesn't react, she shakes her head and stares back up at the ceiling. It's not a very nice ceiling—water-stained in the corner, dusty everywhere else. Castiel doesn't see the appeal.

"I was stopped twice," she admits. "I told them you were a friend who'd had too much to drink."

Dean's clear eyes go cloudy.

"They seemed to believe me," Castiel says reassuringly; but Dean's face is suddenly as still and melancholy as the well-dressed people in the paintings in Michael's house. "Dean?"

" 's nothing," Dean mumbles.

Strange.

 _Confusing_.

Castiel has no hope of reasoning with this woman if she doesn't know what will cause her to spontaneously shut down.

"It's clearly not 'nothing,' Dean."

"Yeah, it is," Dean snaps.

"I need to know what just happened," Castiel insists. "Did I say something? Or are your moods just sudden and unpredictable?"

"Not talking to you about it."

"Dean."

" _What_ , Cas? Look, I don't talk about my feelings with people I actually like, and you don't care, you just want to manipulate me. So, no, I'm not talking to you about it."

A personal problem, then. Castiel grits her teeth and spends a full ten seconds imagining she's shoving her knife into Michael's chest.

It doesn't help much.

"You don't know that I don't care. I believe you called me 'good company' just moments ago."

"Better company," Dean mumbles, and lapses back into silence.

Castiel takes a slow, even breath. "Who would I tell?" she points out dryly. She hesitates for a moment before continuing, but the open companionship method doesn't seem to be doing much good; and some people feel more comfortable sharing if they don't feel they have any other choice. "Keep in mind that I can make things very hard for you if you don't cooperate."

Dean snorts derisively. "What're you gonna do? Kill me?" She splays her arms out to her sides. "Go for it, buddy."

"No," Castiel says blankly. "No, I'm not going to kill you. Tell my higher-ups of your insubordination, maybe. See how you feel about cleaning toilets for the rest of your time on Earth. Maybe they'll let you out once a week, to allow you to see how many people you care about get hurt."

"Don't care about anyone anymore," Dean says defiantly.

"I'm certain we could find someone."

"Good luck with that," Dean smiles. But then it wavers, goes a little too thin, a little shaken. Maybe she has someone in particular in mind, or maybe she just thinks that she could be forgetting someone. Maybe she's just realizing that there's no advantage to her secrecy. "It's nothing," she repeats. "It's really nothing." She shakes her head.

"Go on," Castiel prompts, making an effort to sound interested, or sympathetic, or... or... what would be the proper etiquette here? Her eyebrows lift naturally into something concerned, so she goes with that. Concerned sympathy seems appropriate. Maybe Dean requires some combined form of kindness and force to open up.

Dean lets out a heavy sigh and rubs at her eyes. "Seriously, it's nothing," she prefaces. Castiel waits patiently, for Dean is silent but there is confliction swimming on her face where before she was closed off. "It's just that... it used to be my sister had to do that. Carry me outta places." She licks her lips. "That was when I really was just drunk, of course, not freakin' drugged up by some crazy mafia princess, but it... I dunno. Just... made me think of her."

By the end of her brief explanation, Dean's voice has started to sound like someone's got a hand around her throat, and she shakes her head again, squeezing her eyes shut.

They snap open again a moment later, accusing green turned on Castiel. "Quit staring at me."

Castiel raises her hands in mock surrender, looking off to the side and pressing down a small crest of exasperation.

She waits several minutes before speaking again, deliberating the need for more information and the likelihood of getting any without asking directly. She goes for a different topic, at least.

"Dean," she says slowly. "Who were those people?" She suspects the tall, broad man of being Victor Henricksen, the bounty hunter who first caught Dean, but confirmation is important.

Dean has relaxed some now, her eyes closed but not tightly, her body limp instead of taut on the bed. She raises a lazy eyebrow at Castiel's question. "What people?"

"The people whose presence led you to jump out a window," Castiel clarifies. She's had time to calm down, herself, in the hours she's been sitting here. She's collected herself again, organized her thoughts at the front of her mind and carefully tucked her emotions away at the back. Her voice is level, though it might be easy to let her irritation get the better of her if she hadn't detached herself from the situation.

"Ah. Those people." Castiel waits. Dean's eyes stay closed, but she lets out a weary sigh. "Well, you know about all the people I killed."

The pause after her words is long, and Castiel nods despite that Dean can't see her.

"Meg is... uh. Well, you mighta heard her yelling it across the whole damn hotel: I killed her sister." Dean stops talking and drums her fingertips against her thighs, lips twisted into a frown. It's more of a thoughtful expression than a remorseful one, by Castiel's judgement. She seems to be considering her words before she speaks them—it's a care that Castiel hasn't witnessed in Dean, before this afternoon. "I met her once before today—well, I say met: they had her testify against me before they locked me up. Give the people a chance to hear from the families, y'know." Another pause, but brief this time. "And then Victor, he's the one who brought me in. Bounty hunter sorta guy. Ex-FBI, from what I gathered."

"So he was looking to bring you in again, and she just wanted you dead."

"That's about the gist of it, yeah."

"And... and what did you mean when you said you were innocent?"

"I meant I was innocent, dumbass. I mean yeah, sure, I—Hang on. How'd you know I said that?"

Castiel blinks. "I—" she says quickly. "You weren't exactly keeping your voice down—"

"Yeah, actually. Think I was," Dean interjects. Her eyes are open now, anger simmering, and she's swinging her legs over the edge of the bed to sit and face Castiel with accusation in her posture. "You were there, weren't you? You were close enough to hear me and you didn't do a damn thing." She runs a haphazard hand through her hair, eyes wide and not looking at Castiel as she absorbs the implications of this new realization. When her eyes do flick back to Castiel, they're intense and burning. "She was gonna shoot me, Cas!" A short burst of unhappy laughter leaves Dean's lips; incredulity coloring her tone, she says, "And you know what? For a second there—just for a second—I was thinkin' you might not be such a bad person to hang around. I mean, if someone's gotta follow me around 24/7, at least you're kinda funny!"

A frown sinks the corners of Castiel's mouth, her eyes narrowing. "I don't believe I've made a joke in your presence."

Dean snorts, but again it's unhappy. "Yeah, see. Funny."

"Dean, I don't understand what you're—"

"Damn it, Cas. Don't worry about that, okay? It's not important." She draws in a breath, slowing down. "What's important," she says, voice quieter but more emphatic, "is that you stood there and _watched_ while I almost died. What kind of sicko are you?"

"But you didn't die," Castiel reminds her calmly. It earns her a sarcastic smile and a shake of Dean's head.

"I thought you were supposed to be 'looking out for me' or something. What gives?"

"Those are not my orders, Dean. My orders are to keep track of you, not to interfere."

"Yeah?" Dean asks. "Even if it means letting me die? I thought you guys had 'important work' for me, and all that."

"Do not mistake your importance for indispensability, Dean," Castiel says sharply.

That sobers her. She still snorts sarcastically, shakes her head and looks away, but it's evident that she's been taken off guard.

Good.

"Dean," Castiel presses, "my superiors do have something important planned for you—but first they need to see that we can trust you." She pauses momentarily, observing Dean with calculating eyes. "If, as you say, there's truly nothing that you care about anymore... it could be in your best interests to cooperate."

Dean's mouth twists with disgust. "Not when 'cooperating' means killing someone for no reason. Hell no."

Castiel keeps her expression placid. "I assure you there's reason. That my superiors haven't shared that information with you doesn't prove otherwise."

"Yeah, whatever gets you through the night," Dean says dismissively.

Castiel's jaw clenches once, briefly, with unwanted indignation. "Are you really so much better?" she asks lowly. "You speak with such disdain; have you forgotten your own crimes? Your hands are not free of blood, Dean. Don't speak as though they are."

"No, you know what?" Dean says. "I'll say whatever I damn well want to. Yeah, I've killed people. Yeah, I've got Lady Macbeth blood on my hands that I can still see no matter how many times I wash my hands. Thing is, I _know_ I'm a dick. I know those people had lives, had sisters back home, mothers, fathers, families—and I feel shit about it, okay? And you—what, you'd have me kill this girl without even bothering to question if it's a crap order? Those people I killed - they deserved to die. I had to do it. But this? That girl cat-sits for her boss and brings the whole office coffee in the morning and doesn't go five minutes without smiling. She's young, and happy, and smart—she's gonna be a lawyer in a few years!—and she makes everyone around her feel good; how do you expect me to kill her?" Dean's eyes have taken on a crazed, sort of desperate shine. She's berating Castiel, but by her face you'd think she was begging.

There's nothing to say in response. Following orders can be difficult, but it must be done. Castiel sits in silence, watching Dean with careful eyes.

After a moment, Dean seems to be collecting herself. Her chest rises and falls with deliberate breaths, and when she opens her eyes after a prolonged blink, they look calmer.

"I," she says slowly, clearly, "am not killing that girl."

She stares at Castiel, challenge bright in those green eyes.

Castiel side-steps the direct invitation to an argument in favor of something a little more tactful. She meets Dean's gaze with steady eyes, observing her, looking for any helpful reaction as she says, "What if I told you she deserves it?"

Dean blinks. It wasn't a staring contest, but Castiel still has a sense that she's gained the upper hand when Dean glances away. "What?" she says.

"What if I told you," Castiel repeats, leaning in, "that Tracy deserves her fate as much as any other of your kills?"

Dean's looking at her again, eyes wary. "Are you serious?"

Castiel inclines her head.

"What did she do?" Dean prompts. "How do you know she deserves it?"

"That's more than you need to know right now, but I assure you, you can do this job and keep your clear conscience."

"Not good enough, buddy."

Castiel flattens her hands to her thighs, keeping them open and relaxed. Dean will want to know Tracy's specific grievance, and that's more information than Castiel has been given. She doesn't need to know any more: Tracy has been identified as a threat to the general wellbeing of the local population, and Dean and Castiel have been assigned to take her out before she causes more harm. But Dean will likely desire more information.

"I can't say more," Castiel evades.

"Nope." Dean shakes her head. An insincerely apologetic smile stretches her mouth. "Need more than that if you want me to do it."

Castiel shifts her shoulders back, trying to ease the tightness of frustration and worry growing in her chest. "We wouldn't ask you to do this if it weren't just."

"Yeah, explain that to me. You guys kill people—but you think you're the good guys?"

"We eliminate dangerous people in the interest of protecting innocent ones. It's as simple as that. The people we kill deserve it; by your own logic, we're innocent."

Dean narrows her eyes, regarding Castiel thoughtfully. Castiel stares back blankly.

Then Dean's mouth curves in an abrupt grin. "I bet you don't even know what she did," she says decisively. "You just take orders without question, is that it?"

Castiel forces herself to remain reactionless.

Dean shakes her head again, drumming her fingers on her thighs. "Yeah, okay. Well, until you can tell me exactly what that girl did to end up on your shit-list, I'm not touchin' her." She leans forward to the single bedside table between the beds, snatching up a pamphlet exclaiming that "Poppa's Pizza will deliver right to your motel room!"

"Now," Dean says definitively, "if you're not gonna spill, I'm gonna get some food, and try to catch up on Doctor Sexy." She grabs at the endtable again for the TV remote, but pauses before she turns it on to add, almost as an afterthought, "And you—" she points an accusing finger in Castiel's direction, "—you are gonna give me some peace and quiet." With that, she lifts her legs back onto the bed and wiggles back to lean on the headboard, manning the remote with one hand and the motel phone with the other.

The monotonous hum of the air conditioner is joined by the incessant chatter of the television. Castiel sets her shoulders straighter, folding her hands in her lap, eyes finding a blank patch on the off-white wall as she thinks.

Giving Dean more information at this point in their working relationship is an absolute impossibility. They don't yet know if she's trustworthy. Michael would never condone sharing the full reasoning behind his request. In such a position, Castiel can't meet Dean's demands for information—and Dean seems an unlikely candidate for compromise.

Where does that leave them?

Dean speaks loudly into the phone, changing her mind several times before placing her order, then laughing with the person on the other end of the line over some unknown joke. She's too loud to tune out, too loud to think over.

Castiel wets her lips and tilts her head to relieve a kink in her neck.

 _Focus_.

Michael will be pleased to know that Dean has indicated willingness to cooperate if provided sufficient reason. He will also be pleased with the amount of personal information Castiel has already acquired. Of course, he's also expecting Castiel to persuade Dean to kill the mark on her own—and Castiel's confidence in that regard is taking a reckless nosedive—but as long as the task is completed by one of them before they return, Michael should at least be pacified.

All right, then. Castiel sets a loose time frame: if a brilliant idea hasn't struck by the time Dean has finished eating, Castiel will take care of Tracy herself. That decided, Castiel grants her mind freedom to drift; either she'll think of a way to convince Dean, or she won't.

Without fully intending them to, Castiel finds her thoughts forming a rough plan for Tracy. The logistics aren't complicated. If her assumption was correct and the house Dean visited earlier is where Tracy lives, then she's already located her target. In ideal circumstances, Castiel would spend at very least a full week familiarizing herself with Tracy's life—where she goes during the day, when she's home, when she's home and alone—but the current circumstances are far from ideal, in large part because she can't afford to leave Dean to her own devices for long. Under these conditions, her best option is to take her chances at night. Hopefully Dean will be sleeping, and hopefully Tracy and her family will be doing the same. Castiel saw plenty of windows that could serve as entrances. Once she's in, she won't need long. It's doable.

Left uninterrupted, Dean eats three quarters of a large pizza, watches a seven-episode marathon of a show that seems to be about a doctor in cowboy boots whose long, unchecked hair should probably raise more sanitary concerns in an operating room than it does, and then mumbles something vague about "going t' bed, don' innerup' me," rolls onto her side, and falls asleep.

Castiel spent the entirety of the first Doctor Sexy episode racking her brain for a persuasion technique she hadn't yet tried, and spent the next two episodes struggling to understand the intricacies of the rapidly shifting inter-office romances while Dean laughed at her helpfully from the other bed. Dean did not bring the topic of Tracy up again, and Castiel was non-forthcoming.

Three more episodes passed with the two of them sharing a more companionable silence than they'd yet had, Dean's smile lit up with the blueish light of the TV during the sappier moments, her eyes reflecting the screen when they flicked over to Castiel during the slower ones. It was... nice, for a job.

Castiel spent the last episode with her eyes closed, not asleep, but hoping Dean would take the hint.

And now, now she's waited a full hour after the start of Dean's quiet snores, and with one knife in her jacket and another strapped to her ankle, she slides out of the motel room, quick, careful, quiet. She's uneasy leaving Dean unattended, but as long as this goes well, the whole frustrating job will be over.

The shutting of the car door is loud in the stillness of the night. Castiel counts twice to sixty, waiting to see if the lights turn on in the room she just left. They don't. Castiel pulls out of the motel lot with a soft grate of tires, and makes her way back to hopefully-Tracy's house by memory.

The house looks different at night, but Castiel recognizes it easily. It's small, green, has a tree in the front yard. A normal house.

The inside is much the same, once she's entered through a first story window: standard, simple, quaint. She ghosts up the stairs without sparing a glance for the framed pictures arranged to ascend alongside her, a warm sense of satisfaction nestled behind her ribs. This job is child's play. The windows weren't even fitted with screens, just soft, billowy curtains; the floors are carpeted, her feet near silent as she moves; the whole house is dark, and motionless, and has a faint, somehow soothing smell, like freshly-washed bedsheets.

Upstairs, she finds Tracy's room without any trouble. The walls are soft blue, reminiscent of Castiel's own room. A wide window on the wall adjacent to Tracy's bed casts cold, bright light over her white sheets and her sleeping form. Illuminated so, she looks soft and small, ethereal but fragile.

But then, everyone looks gentle, in sleep.

Castiel extends her arm, the silver of her blade catching the moonlight with a strangely beautiful flash.

Castiel knows that power is easily condensed in small packages. It's a façade she often aims for, herself: unassuming, unthreatening, but deadly once your guard slips.

Yet still, the thought loudest in her mind, even as she draws her knife across Tracy's pale skin, is: _She really does look innocent._


	2. Chapter 2

The drive back feels longer than it did yesterday. It's in part because Castiel is so tired, after everything that happened yesterday and then her scant sleep, but it's also because of the sticky atmosphere in the car. Castiel drives, and Dean's posture is a grouchy slump in the passenger seat, sullen eyes staring out the window. She's hardly moved the whole drive, barely spoken except to say, "Gotta pee, stop the car." Her discontented attitude drags at the energy in the car, expanding like smoke to fill the enclosed space, seeping through Castiel's skin until the effort required to keep her shoulders from sagging is monumental.

Nearing home, it's mainly in the interest of returning alert and ready to give a full report that Castiel breaches the unpleasant, unmentioned subject.

"I had to do it."

She catches Dean's eye-roll in her peripheries, and her mouth twitches with annoyance; she shouldn’t have to explain this. Of course she had to do it.

That's not the only culprit of her annoyance, though. She’s not actually obligated to explain herself to Dean; she could drive them home and drop Dean off in Rachel’s care and not worry about her again unless a future assignment demands it. So why on Earth does she feel like she does have to explain? Like she needs to? Like Dean needs to understand; like Dean needs to be okay with it?

"I did,” Castiel says, a little more sharply than she intends. “You know I had to."

"Like Hell you did," Dean says, still staring out the window. Anger is evident in the hardening of her shoulders, in the bitterness of her tone.

Castiel's jaw clenches. "You weren't going to kill her, and it had to be done before we could return." She pauses, fighting the anger spiking in her throat, trying to pull it back down where it can be suppressed, but it's out before she can stop it: "I was under no obligation to fulfill your duty for you. I did so anyway. You should show me some gratitude, Deanna."

"Yeah, sure thing, man," Dean snaps, twisting in her seat, looking at Castiel now, eyes blazing. "Thanks so much for murdering that innocent little girl before she even had a chance to do something with her life. You're a real hero."

When Castiel's gaze does not waver from the road ahead, Dean sinks back in her seat again and returns her attention to the landscape outside the window, a blur of fall colors, browns and reds of leaves on roadside trees. The air inside the car is sick with unease. Castiel shifts her shoulders, straightening them where they've taken on a slight curve inwards.

They drive seven miles before Dean speaks again, and when she does, it's pitched low, quiet, less anger, more weariness. "Is it really that bad? What they'd do to you if you misbehave?"

Castiel gives her a moment's attention away from the road. She weighs her words on her tongue before she speaks them, feeling their heaviness, the depth of what they signify. "I don't know," she admits. Her voice is quiet, too, matching Dean's volume; this conversation is one to be had in soft tones. "I have never... had doubts, before." She keeps her eyes steady on the road, straight ahead, no expression touching her face. "I've never questioned orders, or hesitated before completing a task, but I..."

But she what? Didn't want to kill that girl?

"For the first time," she says, words coming out slow, measured; she's still feeling them out before she speaks, uncertain of them, "I'm returning home, and I'm not sure if I've done the right thing."

They let the rush-rumble of tires on road fill the empty air, for a moment.

Then Dean says "Huh," and that's it. All that emotion before, all that fire and rage and empathy, and now she's giving a monosyllabic response to perhaps the most significant admission of Castiel's life.

Although really, what is there to say?

They drive on in the semi-quiet of a moving vehicle, letting the monotone of the engine wash over everything. There's a tension hanging between them still, but it's different now. There's no longer an intangible sense of animosity in the car, but something else. Maybe something more companionable; Castiel isn't sure.

They're nearing home. This road is familiar: that curve, those trees, the exact way the midmorning light breaches the windshield; it's well-known, bringing with it that funny sense of invigoration at the return to familiar surroundings.

"Dean," Castiel says, gripped by sudden urgency. "You can't tell anyone of this conversation, of my doubts. If my superiors were to find out, it would be... unpleasant."

Dean snorts. "Please. Think all the radical thoughts you want; I'm not gonna tattle on you."

Castiel narrows her eyes at Dean, trying to discern the amount of sincerity under her nonchalant tone. She looks to be serious; although, she can be easy to misread.

"You won't tell them?"

Dean shakes her head. "Nah, Cas. I got your back."

Castiel blinks.

Body operating on automatic, she follows the curve of the driveway, pauses, continues when Chuck waves them through the gate.

 _Do you mean that?_ she almost asks, but they're back on Michael's property now, and the question feels wrong.

Michael's driveway is long to the point of being ridiculous, curving several times before straightening out. It's not until they round the final bend that Castiel sees the unusual amount of motion in front of the house. Narrowing her eyes, she slows the car to a stop. There are people scattered around the widest part of the driveway in front of the house, a trail of them snaking around the side in the direction of the garage. They all appear to be people Castiel knows—siblings and colleagues, all who live in this base or frequent it while on jobs—but it's hard to be sure, from a distance.

"Stay in the car," she tells Dean sharply, severity making her voice low and gritty. Dean is leaning forward in her seat, peering out the window curiously.

She gives Cas a quick salute and a mocking "Aye-aye, Captain!" before returning her gaze outside. She doesn't bother asking what's going on, and Castiel is grateful not to be slowed down. She doesn't pause to question Dean's sudden agreeability.

The small, still-amassing crowd seems to be most concentrated in the walkway at the side of the house, pressing back to the garages. Castiel's status allows her to slide through without difficulty, breaking free to land in the paved backyard. Her brother stands at the head of the crowd, tall and broad and imposing, encouraging silence over the gathered crowd. His eyes alight on Castiel, and his lips curve in a small, satisfied smile.

"Castiel. I'm glad you've returned," he says, walking forwards to meet her.

"Uriel." She inclines her head.

"There's no need for formalities, sister." His rich, resonant voice makes hers sound grainy and rough in comparison, his dark, full figure making her feel as small as ever. Uriel was adopted by their father before Castiel was, and their connection is perhaps deeper—and more complex—than that of just co-workers.

Castiel shakes her head. "What's going on?" she presses.

Uriel gives her a careful look, as if guessing at the reaction she will have to his words. "It's Anna," he tells her finally. "She's left again."

"What? No, she wouldn't—"

"Yes, Castiel. She's gone. Left early this morning, as far as well can tell. We assumed her to be in her room all morning, but she didn't show up for our meeting this afternoon. There's a car missing. Some supplies." A thick, wide hand lands on Castiel's shoulder, rocking her slightly forward. "I'm sorry, Castiel. I know you believed she had changed."

Castiel stares past her brother, at some insignificant nothing in the distance. Her vision thins to slits, eyes narrowed as she thinks. "You're sure she ran? She couldn't have been... coerced?"

Uriel looks at her like he's torn between sympathy and amusement. "No, Castiel. She went voluntarily. You know she did."

For another moment, Castiel stands motionless. Anna can't be gone again. Not after what happened when they caught her last time. But... there's no other explanation. She hid it well, but she wasn't happy here—that's not what's important, happiness, but Anna never did quite grasp that. 

Uriel is right. 

Castiel exhales slowly, and she deflates with it, a balloon with its air let out.

Uriel's strong fingers squeeze her shoulder, a final, unspoken condolence. Then he lets go of her, hand returning to his side as the professional indifference returns to his face. "With Anna gone, you'll be operating under my orders."

Castiel dips her head in a quick nod, agreeable and respectful.

"Stick around for a few minutes while I calm everyone down; you can brief me on your last job when they're settled."

Castiel gives him another nod and slips away to stand at the side of the house and wait. Her brother faces the cluster of people awaiting his words and pauses a moment, as if waiting for the crowd to quiet down, but there's no one making a sound.

Castiel looks them over as Uriel begins to speak, estimating maybe twenty-five people cluttering the backyard. She half listens as Uriel informs everyone of Anna’s unauthorized departure. He stresses the importance of finding her before she puts any information in the wrong hands, but reassures everyone that the situation is under control, they need not worry. The local police have been alerted to the presence of a high-profile serial killer potentially on the loose and should, at the very least, keep her in the state. 

Everyone is to carry on as usual.

The people lap up Uriel’s words, then begin to dissipate at a wave of his hand, turning back to the house and heading for their abandoned activities.

Castiel falls into step beside Uriel, and together they walk along the side of the house at a slower pace.

"I want you to head the search team," he tells Castiel, looking forward and up rather than at her. His posture is impeccable, as always; his chin is held high, his hands are clasped behind his back, and his shoulders couldn't be straighter if they were secured to a rod.

"Of course," Castiel responds.

"No, let me rephrase," Uriel says. "I want you to find her. You know her the best, and were involved in the search the last time she ran; it shouldn't be too difficult for you to find her on your own, and frankly, I can't spare any man-power."

Castiel holds her mouth shut against a protest, shaping the words carefully before allowing them out. "Uriel... this is not a one-person job. Even one extra pair of hands could make the difference between losing her—give me Rachel, we'll have it under control in a matter of days."

Uriel is shaking his head before Castiel has even finished speaking. "No, he says promptly. "I need Rachel here."

 _Why?_ Castiel would ask if it would get her any answers. _What's going on that everyone is so busy?_

"Brother, I'm not sure this is one I can handle on my own."

"And why is that, Castiel?" Uriel stops walking abruptly, turning to face Castiel. His hands come forwards to rest in his pockets. His eyebrows arch up, at odds with his flat smile. They're still just around the side corner of the house, the shadow of the awning casting Uriel half in darkness—but his eyes still gleam, questioning, challenging.

Castiel falters.

"I..."

"You don't think you could do it. If you find her and she doesn't come quietly, you don't think you could pull the trigger."

Castiel is silent.

Uriel's smile grows, satisfied and reprimanding all at once. "Sentimentality will get you nowhere in life, Castiel."

Castiel turns her head an increment away, gazing at the shadowed side of the house instead of at her brother. He gives a short laugh, and Castiel feels her jaw tense without her consent.

"All right, then. I'll give you Deanna."

Castiel snaps her focus back to Uriel. He's still smiling, sparks of amusement behind his eyes—but he's not kidding. "No," Castiel rushes out, "no, she's a liability, not an asset, you can't saddle me an uncooperative escapee while I'm trying to work—"

But Uriel is chuckling, shaking his head, not listening. "You asked for an extra set of hands, Castiel. I'm giving you one." He claps her on the shoulder again, but this time it's not friendly, or supportive: now she is being mocked. She grits her teeth and holds her silence. “You run into any trouble, you can tell her that if she does a good job we’ll have a nice surprise waiting for her.” His smile is as excited as it is sinister. Castiel holds her expression blank (but what on Earth does he mean?).

"You're welcome," Uriel presses, every bit the condescending older sibling.

That Castiel does not attack him with the fists at her sides is a mark of her many years of training.

It's only after he's disappeared back inside the house that she remembers she's still expected to brief him before the day is over.

She regrets not punching him.

 

"Wait in the car" apparently translates to Dean as "follow me and eavesdrop on my conversations."

Castiel drags her by the upper arm towards Michael's basement, Dean chattering away the whole time.

"So who's this 'Anna' chick? D'you know where she went? Oo, hey, you think we'll get to chase her somewhere fun? Man, I could go for some nice Hawaii weather right now. Sun, sand, hot babes..." She laughs suddenly, whole face brightening with it. "Dude, do you even own a swimsuit? I bet you'd wear one of those full-body wetsuit things. No!" Her eyes jump wide. "Do you have a bikini?" She jerks in Castiel's grip, presumably trying to nudge her shoulder against Castiel's. "Bet you got one of those tiny little string things, huh?" She smirks, looking ready to go into more detail, but blessedly, they've reached the door to the basement staircase. Castiel yanks it open and jerks Dean ahead of her by the arm.

"Go on," she encourages, and is relieved that Dean becomes too occupied watching her feet on the steep stairs to keep up the incessant monologuing.

The basement is comprised of long, concrete walls and single-bulb lighting, rooms arranged on either side of a long hallway. Castiel prods Dean into the first room, the one she'd been staying in before, and tugs the door almost closed behind her.

"I'll make sure someone brings you food," she says generously, and pulls the door the rest of the way shut.

The night goes by in an unpleasant but time-passing blur. Castiel shares with Uriel all the pertinent information of Dean's job. She unpacks and repacks her bags in preparation for departure tomorrow. She has Rachel help her access the confidential online police database, and checks for any progress on Anna's case (she's relieved to find nothing). She sorts through the few files she can find from Anna's last escape attempt, double-checks an address before writing it down and tucking it at the top of her travel bag. By the time she slides between the sheets of her bed, sleep takes her quickly.

 

Dean is waiting for her in the driveway again when she exits the house, leaning on the single car in the driveway (a mini van: God must hate Castiel—or maybe that's Uriel, who probably instructed Rachel on which vehicle to prepare). A leather jacket has been added to Dean's provided wardrobe, worn over a beige-green henley and a flannel button-down.

"Heya, Cas."

"Good morning, Dean." Castiel's voice sounds more weary than she'd intended. She attempts to rectify it with a smile, but suspects she comes off more strained than happy, and lets the expression slide from her mouth.

They climb into the car, Dean in the passenger seat again and Castiel in the driver's. Castiel waits long enough for Dean to buckle her seatbelt but no longer before easing down on the gas and pulling out.

"Easy there, tiger." Dean twists in her seat to look at Castiel, eyebrows raised. "You got someplace to be?"

Castiel frowns at her. "In pursuit of my sister, yes."

An eye-roll. "Yeah, that clears it up. I mean, where the Hell do we start?"

"I know where," Castiel says, mouth settling into a grim line.

"Oh, yeah?"

"This isn't the first time Anna has done this," Castiel admits. She's fairly certain Dean was not eavesdropping early enough to hear that, but surely there's no harm in giving her all the available information. She chances a quick look away from the road to see Dean blinking, wide-eyed.

"Well," Dean says. "And here I thought you guys were all robots without the capacity to act on your own. Not true, huh?"

"Anna is... not as loyal as the rest of my siblings. She's never been fully devoted to the cause."

Dean heaves a sigh, wiggling back deeper into her seat. "Yeah. 'The Cause' again, huh? What was that, again? Killing innocent little girls in their sleep?"

Castiel clenches her jaw. “I did what was necessary. There's no sense in belaboring this.”

Castiel doesn't shift her eyes from the road, but she imagines she can sense Dean's eye-roll. “Yeah, okay.”

Castiel blinks, but doesn't allow surprise or relief to register in her expression.

Dean taps her fingers against her thighs, always restless. “So, what's this great lead of yours?"

 

"What, Michael sent another one of his posse to yell at me for corrupting his sister? Not interested, thanks."

It's been just over ten years since Castiel last spoke to Ruby Daemon, and she's as unsympathetic as ever.

"That's not what this is, Ruby," Castiel says calmly. She gives the dark-haired, pale-skinned woman a suspicious look. "But I think you know that. Has Anna contacted you?"

Ruby crosses her arms where she leans in the jamb of her front door, dark leather jacket and dark eyes both swallowing the early afternoon light. She stares Castiel down despite being at least half a foot shorter. Motionless, she holds her defiant expression for long enough that Castiel can see Dean starting to fidget at her side, hands restless, fingers twitching.

"Maybe," she says finally.

Castiel narrows her eyes.

Ruby lets out an exasperated huff of air, pushing off from the door frame and running a hand through her hair. "Yeah, okay. Fine. She contacted me."

Castiel nods. "We need everything you know."

"Slow down, sweetheart." Ruby grasps the door handle, looking ready to close it in their faces. "Your sister matters a Hell of a lot more to me than you do, and she doesn't want me to spill the beans. Good luck elsewhere—"

One of Dean's sturdy, borrowed hiking boots is in the way before Ruby can slam the door closed. " Anna might be in trouble."

Castiel blinks.

Ruby pauses.

Dean rolls her eyes. "Look, you just said you care about her. At least let us tell you what's going on; you still don't wanna talk? Fine. But hear us out."

A severely displeased expression twists Ruby's pretty features, but after only a second's deliberation, she steps back from the door. It swings open in her grip, and she steps to the side to allow Dean and Castiel into her house, a sour frown fixed on her face the entire time.

There's a small sitting room to the left of the door, and a hallway directly forward.

"Ah-ah-ah!" Ruby corrects, pointing down at their feet. "Shoes off before you traipse through my house."

Dean and Castiel comply, left in white and black socks respectively. Only then does Ruby lead them down the hallway.

The hall ends in a quaint kitchen, bright with natural light from wide windows over a sink, small stove, and counter. A small island takes up the center of the space, lined by stools on either side and decorated simply with a single yellow tulip in a slender vase.

"Sit," Ruby says, gesturing to the stools.

Dean takes one at the far end of the island, and Castiel seats herself beside Dean. Ruby sits opposite them, folding her arms on the counter and leaning forward.

"All right," she says. "Talk."

Castiel looks to Dean, but Dean is already staring at her, face expectant.

Castiel wets her lips.

"Anna ran. You know that." She glances at Dean again, Dean who is still watching her, and who gives her a slight, encouraging nod. "What you don't know," Castiel continues, looking up to meet Ruby's eyes, "is that my family's patience has run out. The police will be watching if she tries to leave the state. My brother has anonymously divulged enough information that they will likely shoot at the first sign of resistance. Best case scenario, you tell us where she is, we bring her home, and that's the end of it. If things don't go smoothly, she may need help to escape with her life."

Faint sounds of the outside world fill the empty space when Castiel stops talking, and as the pause grows, Ruby's eyes widen.

"That's it?" she asks incredulously. "The police are watching? That's the big danger Anna's in?"

"This is a serious concern—"

"The police are not the main threat."

Dean speaks smoothly over Castiel, cutting off an earnest but unproductive protest that really, Castiel should've thought through before starting.

Ruby squints at Dean. "Okay, I'm listening, whoever you are."

For the first time since Castiel has known her, Dean keeps her emotions reigned in. A small smile curves her lips, controlled, if unfriendly. "We're not the only ones looking for Anna."

Castiel keeps her face a careful blank, ignoring the irritation that surges in her chest at being forced to back Dean's play without knowing what it is.

"We're not the only ones looking for her—but we are the only ones who will help her. Anyone else finds her first, and she's dead. The police'll keep her in the state; it's only a matter of time before another team catches up to her."

Observing silently, Castiel has an excellent view of Ruby's expression slipping gradually from skepticism to begrudging concern.

She turns her dark, suspicious gaze on Castiel. "She tellin' the truth?" She gestures vaguely in Dean's direction.

"Yes."

Ruby hesitates still.

"They'd really kill her?"

"From what my sister has told you, you really think they wouldn't?"

Ruby's face goes hard. "No, I don't doubt those bastards." A heavy sigh falls from her mouth, with it falling the angry set of her jaw. She just looks tired, now. "If I tell you what I know, is there any chance you won't take her back there?"

"That's not what this is, Ruby. We're giving her a way out of this alive, not a way out."

"Yeah, I figured. Worth asking."

There's silence in the bright kitchen, tense and thick.

It's broken with an abrupt sigh from Ruby.

"Yeah," she says. "Okay."

Dean shifts on her stool, leaning forward, interest bright in her green eyes. Castiel spares a moment to be concerned that Ruby might give more information than Dean ought to know, but then Ruby is speaking, and Castiel focuses.

"Anna got to my place just after eleven yesterday morning. Said she needed a place to crash for the night while she got some things in order—no, I don't know what she had to take care of, don't look at me like that—so I made her some lunch and she brought in a duffel bag from her car and disappeared into my guest room for the rest of the day."

"Anyway," she says after a brief pause, "Anna came back out just in time to raid my pantry for dinner, and she filled me in about your guys' little cult or whatever over spaghetti and wine. She got a little drunk, I got a little drunk, and that guest bed did not get used last night." Ruby grins.

Dean blinks.

Castiel does her best not to picture her sister in any compromising situations, and silently wishes that Ruby was not too valuable to stab.

"But yeah, she left this morning. Packed up her bag and went before the sun rose—and woke me up while she was at it, the asshole—said somethin' about getting to Bloomington as soon as some place opened." Ruby frowns, uncrossing her arms and tapping her fingers on the counter. "Damn it, I know she told me the name of the place... John... John-something? I don't know; it was weird, whatever it was." She squints off into space, then suddenly hits her hand against the counter. "Saint John's something-or-other. That's where she was going."

Recognition sparking in Castiel's head, she stands from her stool and reaches for Dean's arm, tugging her up as well. "Thank you, Ruby. Your information may make a difference in my sister's survival." Overtaken by urgency, she doesn't bother with a more formal goodbye, just nods her thanks and turns to leave.

Ruby snorts, and as Dean and Castiel hurry down the hall calls sarcastically, "Glad to help, weirdo!"

Castiel steps into her smart dress shoes, and does her best to wait patiently while Dean sits to pull on her boots. She’s out the door almost before Dean is on her feet again, and Dean rolls her eyes, but follows quickly.

Neither of them speak until they're in the car and back on the road.

"Where you takin' us, buddy?" Dean pipes up.

"Your apparent aversion to silence is aggravating," Castiel informs her.

"Come on, man. Where'd your sister take off to?"

Castiel gazes levelly out the front window, shoulders set, resigned but proper. "There's a man who operates out of a cathedral in Bloomington—Saint John's, to be exact. We've done business with him in the past."

"You think Anna just went on a little business trip?"

"No. We've used Richard when we've need fake documentation: Anna's planning to leave the country."

Dean chuckles. "Well, look at you, Nancy Drew."

Choosing not to respond, Castiel lets the grumble of the car take over for the rest of the drive.

The drive from the small town of Pekin to Bloomington is longer than the initial trip to Ruby's house, but thankfully still under an hour. The chances of Anna still being at the church when they arrive are slim, but it's likely she's still in the state. If Richard can give them idea where she's headed... they just might catch her before she reaches the state border.

And if they do, it's only a matter of convincing her—convincing Anna: stubborn, rock-solid Anna—to come home.

Castiel sets her jaw in firm refusal to let Dean see her apprehension.

 

When they reach Saint John's, Richard claims to have sent Anna on her way—West: away from the nearest airport in favor of flying out from a different state—only fifteen minutes ago. He says he didn't have her papers all together yet when she got there, and admits that she was pretty irritated at the delay. Castiel is smiling as she hands over a wad of cash in exchange for the information, both because they've been granted a chance to catch up, and because she can picture this pale wisp of a man shrinking under Anna's disdainful glare. It will be good to see her sister again.

They are quiet but quick back to the car, Dean not commenting, for once, when Castiel pulls onto the road a full twenty-miles-per-hour above the speed limit. They're not in the busy part of town, and Rachel's maps of common police activity in the area show nothing around them for miles.

Of course, Anna would have access to that information, too.

Castiel presses her foot down harder, watching the speedometer climb into the seventies.

 

They stay off the highway, because that's what Anna would do—not for sake of discretion (a single car on a lonely road is not exactly inconspicuous), but because it's easier to speed without being noticed.

There's nothing but field after field after field on either side of them, wide swaths of grass separating the road from a nameless, bushy green crop. Everything has a bit of a shadowy tint to it, a sort of dankness hanging in the air, promising rain.

The speedometer flirts with eighty-five.

 

Periodically, they see a car ahead of them that looks like it could be the blue Toyota that Anna stole. Castiel keeps the speed steady until they catch up, only to see an unfamiliar face through the driver's window.

Anna might have ditched that car hours ago anyway.

 

They've been driving for almost an hour and a half when Dean spots a car up ahead going almost as fast as they are. The sky has only continued to darken, now a metallic blue-silver, heavy with clouds.

"Cas, look." She leans over and points to a roughly car-shaped smudge out in front of them. "Goin' pretty fast for a backroad. Think it's her?"

Castiel answers by pulling their speed up to a solid eighty-five and holding it there.

It still takes them minutes to pull close behind the car, which turns out to be a dull gold color, small and standard, the back bumper a little dented. The driver might have red hair. Castiel can't be sure.

The moment she knows it's Anna is the moment the car speeds up, pushing ninety and pulling away.

"Damn it," Castiel exhales. She grips the steering wheel tightly, leaning forward onto the pedal as far as she dares.

They're gaining again.

Twenty feet away... ten... five... Castiel grits her teeth, braces herself against the seat as she jerks the wheel to the right, avoiding a dead-on collision with Anna but ramming her at an angle hard enough to send her spinning. Castiel brakes as the car leaves the road, but they still skid well into the buffer of grass before they come to a jerking halt.

She looks down at herself. Breathes. Does a quick evaluation: no broken bones, no blood. Maybe a bruise from the seatbelt at her collarbone, but that's inconsequential.

She shifts her attention to Dean, giving her a similar inspection. There's no visible blood, nothing apparent gone wrong.

Castiel leans across Dean to open the glove compartment and retrieve her gun, sliding it into the back of her waistband and focusing, for a moment, on not letting distaste cloud her expression. Then she turns away from Dean and opens the car door without another word, stepping into the dry grass and pulling her knife preemptively from her jacket; she might need the gun, but if at all possible, she prefers her knife. She nods at Dean when Dean follows, and gestures for her to draw her own gun. They walk in silence, Castiel in front of Dean, to where Anna's car ended up on the other side of the road.

The car is facing the wrong direction, the front end is dented around a small boulder amidst the grass, and the rear left corner is thoroughly smashed in. Anna's shock of red hair is clearly visible now, hanging loose around her shoulders as she fights with the airbag to get free of the car.

Castiel stops at the edge of the road, knife up and visible. Dean stops beside her, weapon also raised.

Anna struggles free of the car rather ungracefully. Ungraceful: not a word Castiel ever would've expected to use in description of her sister. Nothing about Anna is familiar right now. Her formal pantsuit is gone, replaced by jeans and an impractical white top with a green fitted jacket overtop. Her hair is down, instead of tucked into its neat bun. Her movements are stiff as she walks towards them, more frustration pouring from her than Castiel has ever seen before.

She looks... she looks _messy_. This is not the clean, perfect operative Castiel has looked up to all her life. This is not the calm, controlled supervisor who oversees a multitude of tasks at once and manages them all with a clinical detachment. This is not Anna—at least, not the Anna that Castiel knows.

"Castiel!" Anna says, within six feet of them now. Dean flicks her safety off, but she watches Castiel, waits for direction. Castiel ignores the soft burst of satisfaction in her chest, saves the moment to analyze later.

"Anna." She lets wariness inhabit her tone, and cocks her knife higher. "We've been looking for you."

But Anna is no longer looking at Castiel. Instead, her gaze has latched onto Dean, her dark eyes glimmering.

"Deanna? Deanna Winchester?"

Castiel watches Dean's jaw twitch.

"Dean."

Anna dips her head. "Of course. Dean." A step closer is cut short when Dean narrows her eyes in warning and jerks her gun slightly upwards. An amused smile plays on Anna's lips before she speaks again, this time to Castiel. "So this is who Michael’s been talking so much about."

That much is obvious. Castiel tips her head in polite affirmation.

Dean's eyes narrow. "Michael, huh? He the head honcho around here?"

Anna smiles. "Yes. Michael is—"

"Anna, enough."

Anna has the gall to look affronted when she turns again to Castiel.

"We're here to offer you a peaceful trip back home, not to swap family stories," Castiel tells her firmly.

This draws a laugh from Anna. "Please. Since when have any of us kept business and family separate?"

She turns to Dean again. "Look, Dean... I have to warn you."

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "That sounds ominous."

Anna carries on earnestly. "Dean, my brother will try to trick you, convince you that what he wants you to do is right—it's not. You have to remember that."

Anna needs to stop talking. Dean can't know everything yet, she's not ready, she'll run again. Castiel’s gun is an unfamiliar presence against the small of her back, hard with sharp angles. She has to stop this.

"Michael will feed you stories about a broken family and a lost father and of the one who brought it all about. You can't believe him, Dean."

Castiel tucks her left hand slowly behind her back, reaching for her gun but moving slowly in hopes of not spooking Anna. The hilt of her knife is a familiar presence in her right hand, but the gun will be faster if Anna flees or starts to say too much. Castiel spares a split second to be grateful for Anna’s own insistence that she learn to shoot with either hand.

"No matter what he says to you, you can't go through with it. More death is not the way this family will heal, it's never been the right thing, it's—oh, Castiel, really?"

Castiel freezes, fingertips brushing the handle of her gun.

"You honestly believe I'm not aware of where you keep your only gun?" Anna shakes her head. "I'm disappointed, Castiel. It's been a long time since I've seen you in the field, and this... this is not what I remember."

Castiel's fingers are trembling, but she grips her gun anyway, standing straight and holding it level in front of her. _You're not what I remember, either_ _,_ she thinks _._ _I don't know who this is. I don't know what you're doing. I don't know who you are._

"You either come back with us, or we kill you. It's your choice, sister." Her voice is remarkably steady, given the muddled swirl of emotion inside her. She doesn’t want to kill her sister. She doesn’t know if Anna will come peacefully. She doesn’t know what to think or how to feel or what to do, and Anna has always been her guide, but this Anna is not the one Castiel knows.

Anna stares at her, expression unreadable.

Then she sighs. "Castiel. Do you really think this is the right thing to do?"

Staring over her gun at Anna, Castiel can see her own hand shaking. Her grip tightens on the gun, and she gestures with it vaguely. "It doesn't matter what I think. I still have orders."

Now there's something clear on Anna's face: disappointment.

Still, she smiles faintly. "Those orders are wrong and you know it."

"What I know or don't doesn't matter."

Anna's face softens. "You can do the right thing, Castiel. You're afraid—I was too! But I can help you; together, we can—"

"Together?" Castiel raises her eyebrows, determinedly not looking where the gun shakes with her hand. "No. I am _nothing_ like you. I am nothing like _Luke_. I will _not_ desert my family." Castiel was there when Luke left them, there when Anna left the first time; she saw what happened to Michael, and to Father, and to the whole rest of the company, biologically related and not. Castiel would never put her family through that.

"Castiel—"

" _No_ , Anna!"

The volume of her voice is out of her control. The shaking of her words is out of her control. Her unsteady hands are out of her control, her tight throat is unresponsive to any attempt to calm down.

Anna gives her a gentle smile.

Castiel clenches her jaw so tightly it begins to ache.

_You don't think you could do it. If you find her and she doesn't come quietly, you don't think you could pull the trigger._

Castiel's palms begin to sweat.

 _Maybe_ , Castiel thinks drily, _maybe my hands will soon shake hard enough that I pull the trigger without meaning to._

Is it pathetic, if she hopes for that?

Maybe.

But she's not sure she can do it intentionally.

"Go on, Castiel."

Anna's voice is soft, smile is soft, eyes are soft, spread hands are soft.

Castiel forces herself to swallow, though her constricted throat protests.

Just do it.

"Anna, I'm sorry, I..."

Castiel shakes her head.

Anna closes her eyes.

_Do it. One quick pull. You've done it thousands of times in training, hundreds of times in the field._

Castiel starts to pull, but the hard line of skin-warm metal digging into her finger makes her stop too soon.

 _Sentimentality will get you nowhere in life, Castiel._ Uriel will never respect her if she returns home defeated.

Castiel squeezes her own eyes shut, squeezes the grip frame of the gun. She can feel Dean's eyes on her from the right.

On a backroad as they are, the only sounds around them are the soft rustle of occasional breeze through the fields on either side. Of course, they're not guaranteed privacy here. They should finish this, clean up, move on.

_Do it._

It's just following orders. Good orders, from Michael, orders to protect their family.

Castiel has never resented orders so much—or, in truth, at all.

She cracks her eyes open again, sees Anna staring at her, calm and silent, the ghost of a smile touching her lips.

"I..." Castiel starts. Shakes her head. Adjusts her grip. "Anna, I..."

The smile solidifies on Anna's mouth. "It's okay, Castiel. Go ahead."

She doesn't look angry. Doesn't look scared. Not frustrated, not desperate, not helpless. A little sad, maybe—but no, that's not exactly it; she looks... sympathetic. She looks sad, disappointed—but not for herself, for _Castiel_ _._

Castiel takes a step backward, blinking.

"I..." she says again. She sets her jaw, but she can feel her lips tremble, and she closes her eyes again.

One slow inhale. Maybe, while she's not looking, Anna will draw a gun from somewhere and shoot her.

Exhale, slow. Then she wouldn't have to face Uriel. Or Michael. Or herself.

Another inhale, normal speed. Maybe her gun will jam.

Castiel exhales and opens her eyes. She stares at Anna for a moment. She can feel that her eyes are wide, probably crazed-looking, probably desperate.

Her finger twitches on the trigger.

"Cas."

" _Not_ now, Dean."

"Cas, look at me."

Castiel hesitates.

" _Cas_."

Castiel shifts to the right to look at Dean, gun and one eye still on Anna. Dean tucks her own gun back into her waistband and raises her hands to show that she's defenseless.

"You don't have to do this," she says slowly.

Castiel almost turns away from her—this is not a time for joking—but the sincerity on Dean’s face holds her still.

But Castiel does have to fulfill her orders; of course she does! Does Dean really see it any differently? How could she?

She looks so earnest though, like she knows what she’s saying and she’s begging Castiel to understand. Castiel doesn’t understand, though. She frowns. "You don’t know what you’re saying, Dean. I have orders. I'll be punished—"

"Not if they don't find out! Come on, Cas. It’s obvious you don’t want to do this. You don’t have to, okay?”

Dean’s words spark irritation in Castiel’s chest, but not for a familiar reason. She’s not frustrated that Dean doesn’t understand. She’s not frustrated that Dean is distracting her, or even that the resignation she’d been building up is slipping now.

No. What burns behind her ribs is resentment: resentment at her own weakness, resentment that Dean can actually see her hesitation—resentment that _Dean_ is the one to see her like this, and isn’t that just the strangest piece of it all.

“Listen to me, Cas: you can let her go. Bet I can get her car working again; we'll send her off and go home and tell those bastards you shot her, okay?"

Castiel is dimly aware that her frown is nearing a glare, but she’s too shaken to find her control again.

"Anna could put my entire family in danger. She knows too much; she could end everything my brother has worked for; she could jeopardize all of us."

Dean looks Anna up and down, takes in the new clothes and the open expression: the whole harmless façade.

Then she looks back to Castiel.

Motioning to Anna but staring only at Castiel, Dean asks quietly, "Do you trust her?"

At once the frustrated, helpless anger begins to drain away.

Castiel looks at Anna. Same dark, expressive eyes, same wide lips, same fair skin, same bright hair. It's  _Anna_. Maybe a different side of her than Castiel is familiar with, but it's still her.

"I... I don't know, I..."

Castiel looks back to Dean, glances at Anna again, Dean again.

"I..."

Not angry any longer, but still helpless, still with Dean staring at her, still confused and useless and lost.

She looks at her gun, at Anna over it.

One last time, she tries to squeeze the trigger.

"I _can't_ ," she whispers. The gun is heavy in her fingers as she lowers her arm.

Whatever she expected to happen as soon as she disobeyed doesn't happen. There's no resounding thunder to signal the end of the world. Michael doesn't appear from the fields with a gun pointed at her head.

Anna stares at her with the soft suggestion of a smile.

Dean is staring at her, mouth stretched in a full grin, eyes bright.

Castiel swallows around the tightness in her throat, flexes her fingers around the down-pointed gun.

Nothing at all happens.

"I can't do it," she says again, because that can't be _it_. Something has to happen, something has changed, this is huge, this is the first time she's ever disobeyed and... nothing is going wildly wrong? That can't be.

Logically, it makes sense. Word of her insubordination won't likely reach the ears of her superiors for hours at the least. There's no one actively monitoring her. There's nothing forcing her to go through with this—just orders, which... are maybe less substantial than Castiel has always thought.

"I don't know if I trust you," she tells Anna, "but I can't... won't—" she shakes her head "—I can't shoot you."

The hand on her shoulder is so unexpected that she jumps, and feels her heart rate do the same.

Dean's fond smile greets her when she turns into the touch. "Leap of faith then, huh?"

"I... Yes, I suppose you could call it that."

Dean gives her a light clap on the back before trudging forward to Anna, taking her by the elbow with the words, "Gonna need some help if you want that car fixed up before it starts to rain."

Castiel watches them go, watches Dean pull up the hood with expert hands and dive in without hesitation. Christ, Castiel wishes she could be like that: quick-acting, sure of herself. This confused uncertainty is frustrating and tiresome.

The gun catches her attention momentarily, black and blocky and standard. She’s never cared much for guns—got that from Anna, actually. They’re loud and dramatic and brutal, an opposite to the efficient stealth that Castiel likes. The thing feels cold, even though it should’ve been warmed by her skin. In part just to stop staring at it, she tucks it back into her waistband. It’s far from a comforting weight against her back, but at least it’s out of sight.

Now the only thing in her hands, Castiel stares at her knife. It’s silver, long, sharp and familiar. Castiel half raises it in front of her, following the point with her eyes. She wishes Anna had never run, wishes Dean had never put the thought in her head that her victims could be innocent, wishes she could carry out Michael's orders as easily and automatically as Uriel does. She wishes everything was as familiar and simple as the well-used knife in her hand.

What good is doubt? The FBI could storm Castiel's home tomorrow because she had one moment of weakness. She could be tortured until death is within sight, then be put back to work with her all her privileges revoked. She could lose integrity in the eyes of her siblings.

Doubt is useless. Worse than useless; it has potential to be actively destructive.

And yet, every time Castiel starts to reach for her gun, she stops before her fingers make contact.

 

When the rain starts to fall, Castiel finds herself sitting on the edge of the road, though she doesn't recall sitting down. She looks up as she feels the first drops land on her skin, her hair. The sky is a smoky gray-blue, thick and dark and heavy with rain. She stares up, blinking rapidly as raindrops strike her face. They fall slowly, spread wide apart, but she can feel when they land that the drops are big and fat, wet and cold.

She hears Dean's voice from the car—"Sonofa _bitch_!"—as she notices the change in weather. A dull bang follows, then a loud thud as she slams the hood closed. "All right," she tells Anna, while Castiel just sits there, staring up at the sky in an odd state of shocked detachment. "You should be good to go. This baby'll get you at least a few towns over, and then I'd suggest you steal yourself a new one before she craps out on you entirely."

Dean's voice spills past Castiel's ears, sound absorbed but not words. Her eyes are closed, rain falling on her eyelids and painting fake tears down her cheeks.

Castiel feels  _off_. She acted against orders, and no, the world didn't end, but it's left her feeling untethered, uncertain of the rules anymore, uncertain what happens next.

She sits, and she waits, and her head is empty, and the rain soaking through her suit jacket is cold and wet and it's the only thing that feels real.

For what feels like a long time, the rush-patter of the rain is underrun intermittently by the grating splutter of the car engine as Dean tries to back the car out of the freshly-made mud beside the road. The steady beating of raindrops is interrupted finally by a triumphant whoop, and Castiel, with some amount of effort, blinks her eyes open to see Dean pulling the small gold car onto the road, Anna trailing behind with a grateful smile.

Castiel closes her eyes once more. Rain soaks through her clothes, feels like it soaks through her skin, and it occurs to her somewhat distantly that she could've chosen to sit in the car this whole time.

The gentle murmur of voices rides under the all-surrounding sound of the rain. A brief thought to make sure Anna isn't divulging too much crosses Castiel's mind, but she's already disobeyed orders today, and the amount of information Dean knows hardly seems so important anymore.

Castiel is shivering before she realizes she's cold. Once it's brought to her attention, she welcomes it. She deserves discomfort. If this makes her sick, she will deserve the sickness. She will have to drive home in soaked-through clothes, and she deserves that, too. She betrayed her family, today; after her insistence that she and Anna are nothing alike, she's allowing a traitor to live at the risk of everyone else. She deserves the way her wet socks rub uncomfortably at her heels when Dean pulls her to her feet.

Anna is gone; Castiel didn't see her go. She hopes Dean has some idea of what they're going to tell Uriel when they return home.

"Hey, come on," Dean is murmuring. She guides Castiel by the arm, leading her to their own car and opening the passenger door for her. Castiel forgets to protest that she's supposed to be the one to drive. "In you go," Dean mutters, still holding her by the arm, still helping her as she sits wetly in the seat and fumbles for the seat belt with cold hands. "Hey," Dean says, "no, you let me get that." She pulls the buckle down across Castiel's chest and clicks it into place. Her wet hair hangs in thick strings, dripping onto her shoulders and further soaking her jacket. Droplets of rain cling to her dark eyelashes. Her skin is lit with the washed out blues and grays and greens of their surroundings, shining with wetness.

Dean is standing very close, Castiel notes absently.

Then she steps back.

"Okay," she says. "Let's get this sucker out of the mud."

 

Dean “gets this sucker out of the mud” much more easily than she did Anna’s car, as the ground on this side of the road is apparently slower to turn into muck. She drives in the direction of home, and Castiel shivers, and Dean casts her at least four worried glances per minute.

“Damn it, Cas,” she breathes after a while, shaking her head and flexing her hands on the steering wheel. “Probably caught yourself a Goddamn cold, sitting out there so long. What the Hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I should keep an eye on you while you helped a traitor escape to ensure you didn’t do any further damage,” Castiel says drily.

Then she blinks.

That was rude, and she actually feels some amount of remorse.

She looks at Dean, weighing the need for an apology, but Dean is just shaking her head with a small, bemused smile on her lips, so Castiel remains silent.

The drumming of the rain on the car is amplified and blurred into a dull thunder inside the small space. Dean drives just a touch slower on the wet road.

“Thank you for repairing Anna’s car,” Castiel says eventually. Her voice is quiet but clear underneath the rain, the monotonous thrum of which does wonders to hide any unsteadiness in her tone.

Dean gives her a quick, appraising glance. “No problem.”

The windshield wipers squelch across the glass in front of them, loud even with the rain. Castiel follows their steady movements with her eyes for a moment, watching them do what they’re programmed to without hesitation or doubt. Then she shakes her head and turns to stare out the passenger window, letting fields blur past her eyes.

 

“Do you have a plan?” Castiel asks after a long while. She resettles in her seat to face Dean.

Dean’s eyebrows are raised. “You think I woulda let your sister drive off if we didn’t have something worked out?”

“I have no idea how to predict your actions, Dean.” Castiel watches surprise flash across Dean’s face, then a quick smirk that widens as she flicks her eyes over to Castiel.

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Castiel says wryly, and startles a chuckle out of Dean.

“You sayin’ I’m full of myself?”

“I’m saying you smirk a lot. Do you have a plan?”

Dean shakes her head, but she’s smiling a little. “You’re just no fun, are you?”

Castiel waits for an answer with patient hands folded in her lap.

“Yeah, yeah. Your sister ‘n me came up with a story.” Dean gestures out the windshield. “It’s raining, right?”

Castiel narrows her eyes. She looks from Dean to the rain spattering loudly against the glass, drops flattening upon impact to mask her view of the road before they’re wiped away. “...Yes,” she says slowly.

“Right. And Anna was driving pretty fast, yeah?”

Castiel presses her lips together and nods silently. She’s never enjoyed audience participation games.

“Basically, we tell ‘em you guys had a little car chase. We caught up with her, she accelerated, you gave chase until she hydroplaned and went spinning right off the road, crashed into a rock. She was dead when we got to her.”

“Michael will see right through it when there’s no death report,” Castiel points out.

“Anna said she’d take care of it for us. She’s gonna head back to Ruby’s place while she figures out how to get out of the state, and she said she’d meet up with Richard again to get everything she needs to be officially dead.” Dean shakes her head, laughs a little. “Man, your lives are weird.”

Castiel  _hmm_ s noncommittally, letting her gaze wander back outside as she picks over the story in her head. Anna and Dean are both smart operatives. Castiel thinks of no problems.

 

The rain lessens during another long gap in their conversation, coming down in quick, tiny drops rather than big, pelting ones. The sound in the car decreases, becomes a pleasant filler in the background.

Castiel loses interest staring at the endless fields, and her drying suit feels stiff around her. Dean has been blasting the heater, so at least she’s not cold anymore, but she’s still uncomfortable, and too emotionally wrung-out to combat the boredom that comes with a long drive.

Her eyes drift over to Dean. Behind the wheel, Dean looks more relaxed than Castiel has yet seen her. Her shoulders don’t hold the same tension as usual; her expression is lighter; she leans back in the seat like she’d be content to sleep there.

Relaxation makes her look… different. Younger, maybe. Softer, definitely. It’s harder to fit this image alongside the crimes Castiel knows she has committed.

Dean is a good distraction. Castiel stares for quite a while.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says after some amount of time. The green lights of the car clock tell her it’s past six pm. She can’t remember what time it was when they started driving.

“Yeah, Cas.”

“Were you eavesdropping when my brother talked about having a ‘surprise’ for you when we return?”

“Oh.” Dean’s fingers make a quick, muted tapping sound as she drums them on the steering wheel. “That. Yeah, I was listening.” She hesitates, fingers stilling. “You got any idea what it is?”

“No.”

The relaxed shape of Dean’s features tightens again, brow slightly furrowed and lips pressed together.

“He said it was a nice surprise,” Castiel reassures her, then frowns. What does she care if Dean is uneasy?

Dean looks at her to flash a quick smile, and Castiel stops puzzling over the strange urge to help calm Dean’s thoughts. Dean’s face looks nicer when she’s smiling. Tired, Castiel lets herself just think about Dean’s smile, instead of the more important things. They don’t feel so important, right now.

 

It’s late when Chuck lets them in through the gate. Castiel took the driver’s seat a few miles before they arrived, and she grants Chuck a weary smile as she guides them along the driveway.

“Someone needs a shave,” Dean mumbles.

The corners of Castiel’s mouth lift, just a little. "He's as loyal as he is unkempt."

Dean raises her eyebrows, looking impressed. "I'm not sure how that's even possible."

There are a few lit windows as they approach the house, but nothing like the commotion from yesterday. No one greets them as they step out of the car, and no one is within sight when they enter the house.

Castiel escorts Dean back to her holding room in the basement, despite Dean’s full-hearted whining. “Come on, buddy. Everything I do for you, you don’t think I’ve earned one side of your bed? Not even the couch?”

“You have a nice mattress in your own bedroom, Dean.”

“Bedroom,” Dean snorts. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

Castiel frowns at her as she pulls open the basement door, and Dean raises her hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll quit complaining. Like I said: at least it’s not prison.”

“Was it really so bad there?” Castiel flicks the light switch inside the stairwell, waiting the half second it takes for the bare bulb to sputter alive and illuminate the stairs before nudging Dean forward.

Dean gives an exaggerated shudder as she takes the first step. “Yeah, man. There was this one guard…” Nine more steps down before she speaks again, shaking her head. “Real nasty piece of work, that guy. First thing I thought when you pulled me outta there was ‘Thank god I’ll never have to see that dickbag again.’” Tiredness makes her grin a little too wide when she stops at the bottom of the stairs to wait for Castiel. “You’re my hero, Cas.”

“That’s lovely, Dean,” Castiel says drily. She ignores the tiny burst of warmth that blooms within her chest. “Now get some sleep. I wouldn’t be surprised if Uriel wants to see us both tomorrow morning.”

“Aw, Cas. You worried about me?”

Castiel holds open the door to Dean’s holding room. Dean rolls her eyes, and pats Castiel on the shoulder as she walks past. She stops just in the way of Castiel closing the door. Castiel holds in a sigh. “Do you need something?”

Dean shakes her head, but doesn’t move out of the way.

Castiel doesn’t bother to hold her shoulders straight, lets herself slump a little. She’s exhausted. She doesn’t have energy for the confliction she sees on Dean’s face.

“What?” she asks finally.

Dean looks at the ground. Through sheer strength of will, Castiel resists the temptation to shut the door with Dean still in its path.

“It’s just… are you gonna be okay?” Dean takes her chances meeting Castiel’s eyes; she gives Castiel a weak smile, but mostly manages to look pained. “With… with your sister, and the whole orders thing, and… and everything…” The floor wins Dean’s attention again as she lifts a hand to rub at the back of her neck, scuffing one boot across the cement floor.

There’s not any sound at all from the house above, just the brush of Dean’s shoe and their almost silent breathing.

Castiel struggles for a moment—Dean is initiating a conversation about emotional wellness? Why does Dean care? Could the question be a trap? Is the concern authentic? How does Castiel answer?—and then lets all the breath out of her lungs in a measured sigh. She settles for honesty.

“I don’t know,” she says, quiet like it’s a secret that the rest of the household might overhear. She says it again: “I don’t know,” a little louder.

If she says it a few more times, maybe she’ll get used to the idea: she doesn’t know, doesn’t know, doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what to feel; doesn’t know what to think; doesn’t know what to do next.

“I don’t know,” she tells Dean. It comes out a little forlorn, a little lost, sounding a little bit like  _Dean, what happens now?_

Dean gives her an almost embarrassed smile, ducking her head again. “Yeah,” she says. “Sounds like you’re human, Cas.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. The utter silence from above borders on eerie.

Castiel forgets to be annoyed that Dean is blocking the door.

When Dean meets Castiel’s eyes again, she’s still smiling. “Well,” she says, “so much for my robot theory.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: non-detailed mentions of past abuse; a little more physical violence than the previous chapters.

As predicted, Uriel calls both Dean and Castiel to his office at seven thirty the next morning.

His office is more furnished than Anna's; tall, dark bookshelves loom along the pale green walls, and three matching wooden chairs face Uriel's massive, cluttered desk. The lighting is cold and intense, a flood of brightness from the strong, simple overhead light, and a somewhat softer glow from the shaded lamp perched amidst the papery mayhem of the desk.

One small, high window in the back wall beams down into Castiel's eyes where she sits in the middle chair, and makes Dean shift her own chair a little further off to the left. The scrape of it against the wood flooring earns her a displeased look from Uriel, but she just grins at him brightly; Castiel bites the inside of her cheek to stop a smile.

"That didn't take you long at all," Uriel says, weaving his fingers together atop his papers. "Didn't need that extra man-power after all, I take it?"

Any urge to smile gone, Castiel refrains from answering, taking Uriel's words for what they are: a polite "I told you so."

"Cas, you thought we couldn't handle it on our own?" Dean is still smilingwhen she turns in her seat to face Castiel; why is she _always_ smiling? This is a serious discussion. Dean slaps a playful backhand at Castiel's arm. "I'm hurt!" she exclaims, but the statement is invalidated by her upturned mouth.

Castiel keeps her eyes resolutely forward. "Not now, Dean," she grates out.

Uriel is watching them with the raised eyebrows and unbelieving smile of an older sibling just granted new leverage. "Having domestic troubles, Castiel?" He seems inclined to ignore Dean's presence until he needs something from her. It's just as well; Castiel will be more comfortable controlling this exchange herself.

"It's nothing of concern," she assures Uriel, and moves on smoothly. "I assume we're here to brief you on the situation with Anna?"

Uriel nods, waves a hand for her to continue, and Castiel does. She feeds him every line of their altered story, grateful that it is, for the most part, truthful. Dean nods along helpfully while Castiel speaks, Uriel leaning back in his chair and listening motionlessly.

Castiel's voice catches just slightly on the words "dead when we reached her," but Uriel will have expected Anna's passing to have an impact on her, and he'll read her tiny slip as sadness instead of deceit.

Upon hearing that Castiel cleaned out her car but left Anna's body beside the road, Uriel's eyes flick to a laptop on his desk, half hidden by papers. Castiel pauses a second to hope that Anna has had enough time to organize her fake death report. Although, if she hasn't, it's not implausible that her body wouldn't have been called in yet. The thought relaxes Castiel enough to finish her story, and she does so quickly, sinking into silence when she's done.

In opposition to the silence of the house last night, there's a dull clamor of constant activity coming in through the closed door, filling the small office while Uriel observes Dean and Castiel. An absent wonder about what they're doing crosses Castiel's mind, but she reminds herself that she'll be informed if she's needed, and lets the thought slip away.

Dean, slouched heavily to the side, starts tapping an impatient rhythm with her fingertips against the wooden arm of Castiel's chair. Uriel is still watching them thoughtfully. Castiel wishes Dean would stop; she almost puts her own hand over Dean's to quiet her, but thinks better of it under Uriel's judgmental gaze. She's just about to whisper " _Dean_ ," when Uriel opens his mouth. He's looking at Dean, this time.

"Is all of that true?"

Dean rolls her eyes. "No, your best operative disobeyed your orders and now she's lying to you." Castiel forces her eyes not to widen as she snaps to face Dean, who is shaking her head now, still _smiling_. "Yeah, Chuckles, it's all true."

Uriel gives Dean a narrow-eyed once over, but apparently decides to believe her.

Castiel is sitting straight again by the time he looks back to her, any sign of fear wiped clear from her face. _Sarcasm_ , damn it. Castiel feels stupid for being alarmed.

"All right, then," Uriel says. "That's all I need from you two." Dean is up out of her chair as soon as he stops talking, but he holds her in place with a stern look. "Deanna, I believe we promised you a present if you did as you were told."

"Nah, that's okay—" Dean starts, but Uriel raises a dismissive hand.

"We don't have it ready for you yet, but we'll call for you as soon as everything has been arranged."

Dean is exceptionally good at faking nonchalance, but over the last couple of days Castiel has spent enough time in close proximity with her to notice the unease that edges her smile.

"Awesome," she says, nodding. "I'm gonna go, then?" She jabs her thumb over her shoulder at the door.

"Accompany her, please, Castiel."

Castiel nods, and Uriel waves a hand at the both of them. Dean is out the door before Castiel has fully risen from her chair, and Castiel hurries to catch up. They fall into stride next to each other as they head away from Uriel's office, Dean looking around at the expensive tiling and rich paint colors, Castiel keeping a watchful eye on her.

"Have you eaten?" Castiel asks when they reach an intersection of hallways. Dean peers curiously in each direction, only turning back to Castiel to nod quickly.

"Yeah. Some scrawny little guy brought me food this morning. Hey, d'you know what happened to the usual blond chick? I kinda liked her. She was cute."

Castiel raises her eyebrows. "I don't know where Rachel has been assigned, no."

"Bummer," Dean nods. She steps out into the intersection and turns backwards to face Castiel. "You eaten?"

Castiel nods.

"Okay. Cool. What are we gonna do, then? You got any fun plans today? Can I come?"

" _You_ are going to spend the day back in your room. I'll likely spend it training, unless I'm contacted with further orders." A new idea occurring to her, Castiel hesitates, ignoring Dean's unhappily wrinkled nose. "I suppose you could come train with me, so long as you promise to do as I tell you."

Dean gives her a cheeky grin, and makes a funny motion with her finger across her chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Castiel narrows her eyes. "This is only so I can study your fighting style, you understand."

"Whatever you say, Cas."

Dean's grin only brightens when Castiel smiles back at her.

The smiling thing is a little weird. It's not that Castiel's _never_ smiled before—of course she has—it's just that she's not used to feeling the urge to with such _frequency_. Maybe... maybe she sort of understands why Dean does it so much. It feels good, to smile with someone. Anna used to smile at her, and sometimes Castiel smiled back, but it wasn't... like this. It wasn't because she _wanted_ to like this; it was because social norms called for it, or because she wanted to show Anna her appreciation. With Dean she _enjoys_ smiling.

Almost more strange than that realization is the one that comes directly after it: Dean likes smiling, too. And Castiel is able to make Dean smile somewhat often.

Castiel has no idea to do with all that information.

She guides Dean to the second floor, where the small in-home gun range and the larger, open-space training rooms reside next to the armory.

 

Dean is an excellent markswoman. She out-shoots Castiel by more of a margin than any of Castiel's siblings (it's worth noting that she can do so with either hand), and though Castiel has her beat in knife throwing, she's still an impressive shot.

They stay in the gun range until Dean's cheeks are colored with warmth and her leather jacket has been discarded, and until Castiel is just beginning to feel the exertion in her arms and shoulders.

They migrate to the open training room, with its florescent lighting and its floor mats for physical combat and its easily-adjusted air conditioner. Dean lets out a low whistle as they enter the space, and Castiel graces her with a small smile when she's done taking in the room.

"You got a sweet place, Cas."

"It's not _my_ 'place'—" Castiel corrects, but Dean waves her off and goes back to looking wide-eyed up at the high ceiling and the small assortment of dulled training weaponry along one wall.

" _Damn_ ," she says, flashing a grin that makes Castiel feel strangely warm inside.

Jogging out into the center of the biggest, central mat, Dean spreads her arms to her sides. "Whaddaya wanna do, Cas?"

"If I were with Rachel we might start with strength training, but I'd rather evaluate your skill in physical combat. If that's all right with you, of course."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, sure. But I'm not wrestling a lady in a suit. Go change first."

Castiel narrows her eyes, but decides it's not a point worth pressing. After a moment's consideration, she locks Dean inside the training room while she heads back to her own room, changing quickly into a loose gray t-shirt and a pair of flexible black pants, grabbing her keyring to let herself back into the training room before she leaves her own room.

She takes the stairs up to the second floor and flips through her keys to find the correct one, fits it in the lock, twists, pulls open... and Dean is not there.

"Damn it," Castiel breathes, taking two long, quick steps into the room. "Damn it," she repeats, eyes darting across the empty back wall. How could Dean have gotten out?

Castiel takes one step backward, starts to turn around—and something slams into her from the right, solid, tall, and... warm. _Dean_.

" _Damn_ it," Castiel says a third time, but it comes out with a relieved smile even as she's knocked to the floor, left staring up at a grinning Dean.

"Dean: one, Castiel: zero," Dean declares, sticking out a chivalrous hand to help Castiel to her feet.

Inexplicably, Castiel can't seem to wipe the smile from her face. "You're childish," she accuses, smiling.

Dean spreads her hands. "Guilty as charged."

"Immature," Castiel adds redundantly, smiling.

One of Dean's hands flies up to clutch at her chest, and she makes a pained face. "Ouch, Cas."

" _Ridiculous_ ," Castiel says, smiling.

"Strike three!" Dean exclaims, and fake-stumbles.

Castiel _laughs_ , then blinks, startled, and forgets for a full ten seconds to clear the surprise from her face.

Dean's grin falters when Castiel resets her expression to blank, but she covers it quickly, and Castiel ignores the apologetic twinge in her chest.

"We should start," Castiel tells her, and she nods.

"Yeah, okay."

They advance together to the center of the floor and begin to grapple.

Castiel overpowers Dean first without too much trouble, but soon finds herself on her back with Dean on top of her, and they roll a few times before Castiel pins her down. Dean gets Castiel's legs out from under her almost immediately when they start again, and follows her to hold her down before Castiel has a chance to right herself. The upper hand goes back and forth as they find their skills matched nicely, sweat breaking out on Castiel's forehead and dampening the back of her shirt, pink overtaking Dean's pale skin.

It only takes a few rounds for them to start smiling at each other again, for absolutely no reason, as they engage in combat more creative and interesting than Castiel has enjoyed in quite some time.

 

They pass their morning and much of their afternoon in the training room, moving from hand-to-hand combat to sparring with one or both of them armed, fighting and tossing breathless taunts back and forth until Dean's stated more than once a desire to take off her long sleeved shirt and both of them are shaking faintly with lack of food.

"We should eat," Castiel says. She's a bit reluctant, but the clock reads four thirty, and they didn't bother stopping for lunch.

"Oh, thank god," Dean groans. "I was beginning to reconsider the idea that you're a machine."

Castiel narrows her eyes, but Dean's smile is light and teasing, so Castiel lets her features drop into a soft smile of her own. "I'll take that as a compliment," she says after a brief hesitation; she knows she was right to say it when Dean lets out a burst of surprised laughter and steps closer. For one heart-stopping moment, Castiel doesn't know why Dean is suddenly in her personal space. She grins at Castiel, close enough for the faint tinge of sweat hanging around her to reach Castiel's nose, close enough for Castiel to feel the body heat that's radiating off of her. Then Dean claps her on the shoulder, smoothes back a wisp of hair that's broken free of Castiel's bun, and moves past her.

" _Man_ , I need a shower." She shakes out her arms, tilts her head each direction to stretch out her neck and shoulders. She looks back. "You coming?"

"I... yes."

Dean waits for Castiel before heading to the door, and they walk out together.

Letting out a contented sigh, Dean re-ties her ponytail, then shakes out her shoulders. "Hey," she says, like something's occurred to her. "If this fighting stuff is your whole life, why do you bother with long hair? I mean, it's real friggin' annoying in a fight."

"Oh," Castiel says. "Yes. Long hair is required for female operatives."

Dean gives her a funny look.

Castiel gives a slight, wry smile. "People would like to tell you there's no longer any stigma attached to a woman having long hair—but stigma or no, it still draws more attention that way." Castiel shrugs. "I haven't given the matter much thought."

"Huh," Dean says. She's quiet for a moment. Then: "I chopped all my hair off when I was in the army, you know." She smiles at Castiel. "Man, that was nice."

"Why did you let it grow out again?"

Dean rubs at the back of her neck, not looking at Castiel. "Uh," she says. "Well, my sister cut her hair real short one time." A fond smile stretches her lips, but it fades almost as quickly as it comes. "It looked good, man, but when Dad saw it..." She shakes her head. "Sam was always butting heads with him. I just did my best to stay outta the way. It never, uh. It never seemed like an option, you know? I knew he'd hate it—way too butch for one of John Winchester's daughters—and it was never really a big deal, so I just... let it grow back out."

She's quiet, then. Castiel is uncertain what to say.

They keep walking, and the tension in the silence bleeds away with surprising speed, leaving an easy, companionable quiet in its wake. Castiel marvels at the simplicity of Dean's sharing, in comparison to her curtness when they'd met.

The air outside the kitchen is much warmer than it was in the training room. Dean makes a pained face, tugging at the collar of her shirt as if trying to loosen it. Her skin has a faint shine, sweat-covered as it is. Looking down at her own arm proves that Castiel is likewise decorated. Opening the kitchen door, Castiel begins to question the wiseness of eating before showering.

But no, they eat sandwiches for their late lunch, sweaty and side by side at the counter. Dean piles more meat between two slices of bread than Castiel thinks she can eat, but downs it all before Castiel is halfway through her own. She waits for Cas to finish before she gets up. Castiel is more pleased than she suspects is entirely reasonable.

 

Castiel sleeps well that night, and wakes with a pleasant ache through her entire body from the challenge of sparring with Dean. She drops by Uriel's office to check for any new tasks, and, receiving none, offers to provide breakfast for Dean in Rachel's busyness. Uriel gives her an odd look, but grants her permission to monitor Dean until they need her again. Their "surprise" is still not ready, but he expects it will be by tomorrow.

Castiel leaves his office and finds herself smiling at the prospect of another day like yesterday.

 

It takes not the one day Uriel expected, but two days for them to finish whatever arrangements they've been working on, and Dean and Castiel pass both days training, eating, and wandering the house in what would be amicable silence if Dean weren't so adamant to always fill the quiet with her voice. The downtime is more pleasant than Castiel usually finds it. The second evening, she takes her dinner down to the basement and sits on an uncomfortable metal chair across from the bed where Dean sits, and learns more about Sam Winchester's childhood than she ever would've wanted to know.

It's interesting, though.

Dean's bright eyes get brighter when she talks about her sister, and her mouth is always edging toward a smile. It's impossible not to be drawn in; Castiel couldn't tune out the origin story of Sam Winchester's clown phobia if she wanted to.

They stay up later than Castiel had intended. Conversation dies down incrementally, each space between their words longer than the last, until Castiel happens to glance down at her watch, and sees that it's already almost twelve.

"We should rest," she says, with some amount of reluctance.

Dean nods.

"Uriel expects everything will be ready tomorrow morning."

Dean nods again, smile slipping. "Yeah. Okay. And, Cas?"

Castiel stops in the doorway, but doesn't turn back. "Mm?"

"Thanks," Dean murmurs. "For... for listening about Sam, and just for... everything."

 _Everything_. Is she referring to the prison break? To the reprieve from murderous orders? Or truly _everything_? Castiel chooses to believe she means it all, down to the dinner and the companionship and the smiles.

"Of course, Dean."

She locks the door behind her.

 

Three crisp knocks on her bedroom door wake Castiel before her alarm does. Blinking open sleep-sticky eyes, Castiel lets her head fall to the side, squinting at the red numbers of her clock.

 _5:00 am_.

For just one more second, she squeezes her eyes shut again.

The knocks come another time, followed by, "Castiel?"

Sighing quietly, Castiel untangles her arms from the sheets to rub at her eyes with her fingertips. "What is it, Rachel?" she calls, and then frowns, clearing her throat.

"Uriel would like to speak with you before things get started today. He wants you in his office by five thirty."

"All right," Castiel says, keeping the weariness out of her voice. "Thank you, Rachel."

Rachel's shoes clack away down the hall as Castiel sits up, stretching and wondering what Uriel could want so early.

 

Once she has showered and dressed and made her way to her brother's office (at five thirty exactly), Castiel gets her answer.

Sort of.

"Walk with me," Uriel greets her, not letting her even step inside his office. "We're ready."

He leads down the hall, and she follows, walking in his shadow. She refrains from asking any of the questions piling up on her tongue. _Where are we going? What's the "surprise"? Will Dean be there?_

They round a corner, and Castiel begins to think she knows where they're headed. _What are we doing in the interrogation room?_ she wants to ask, but does not. Uriel will tell her everything she needs to know as soon as she needs to know it. Why does that suddenly not feel good enough?

"Here we are."

One of Uriel's large hands closes around the doorknob, and he holds the door for Castiel. The interrogation room (on their side of the two-way mirror, at least) is clean and neat. One long table fills most of the open space, and the metal chairs around it crowd the rest. A speaker looks down on them from the corner, wide and black and blocky, its remote resting on the otherwise empty table.

Castiel side-steps the chairs to stand at the window.

The lighting, dim where Castiel stands, is bright and harsh on the other side, only made more intense by the white walls. A table also occupies the center of the room, but it's smaller, metal instead of wood, with a link for handcuffs on one end. Small cameras record from each corner of the ceiling, transmitting the feed directly to Michael's bank of security monitors.

Castiel looks over the room thoroughly, wets her lips, and turns back to Uriel. He's taken stance just inside the doorway of the room, hands in the pockets of his suit pants, ever-present smirk half in place. Castiel fixes him with a level stare.

"Who is he?" she asks lowly.

The man in question is seated in one of the interrogation room's flimsy aluminum chairs, his cuffed wrists secured to the table. His ankles are held in larger cuffs, spaced apart with a short length of chain and locked to the legs of the table. He sits with his head bent down and his spine curved, but every few moments he jerks against his bonds, and Castiel is glad Michael had the foresight to bolt the table to the floor.

"Who is he?" she asks again, a little more force behind her question.

Uriel's lips twitch with amusement, like there's a joke and he's the only one in the room who knows what it is.

"He goes by the name 'Alastair'."

 

The pieces don't fit together in Castiel's head, at first.

To be fair, she's not given enough information to work with; she's told: "sit here, observe what happens, don't interfere," and then left alone in the room while Uriel heads elsewhere. Possibly, he's retrieving Dean, but Castiel has no way to know for certain. She draws out a chair. Sits. Watches this "Alastair" for a few minutes, and wonders who he is.

And then—then, Uriel comes back, Dean in tow. Castiel watches them enter the bright room, watches Uriel's tight grip on Dean's upper arm with some amount of discomfort, watches Alastair's head rise—and then she watches panic flare on Dean's face.

Castiel leans forward, eyes on Dean, careful to keep her own expression neutral.

"No," she sees Dean mouth, shaking her head.

Pressing her lips together, Castiel grabs for the speaker remote, un-muting it to hear what's going on in the adjacent room.

"No, Dean says again, " _No_ , you can't leave me in here with him!" but Uriel, chuckling, has already dropped her arm, closing the door between them despite the increasing volume of Dean's protests.

Castiel watches the back of Dean's head through the glass as she stares at the closed door. Her shoulders are drawn tight, fingers curled into fists that tremble at her sides. 

She punches the door. Her knuckles connect with a hollow bang, and come away already turning red. She flexes her hand, staring at it as she turns around and slumps back against the wall. All the color and expression has drained from her face, leaving just a numb brand of disbelief. She gazes down at her bruising hand with absent eyes.

"Hello again, Dean."

Dean does not look away from her hand.

Alastair has a predatory voice, dry and nasally and curdled with seduction.

He lets out a musing little hum, and Castiel can see his lips curl into a satisfied smile. It's unnerving, for someone so thoroughly bound to look so contented.

"Come on, Dean," he says, tone light. "I'm sure you remember me." His steady smile is focused on Dean, though she has yet to look at him. "We were so _close_ ," he says cheerfully, "in prison."

The pieces fit.

The realization moves slowly, for one long second, and then it all snaps together at once.

Dean's panic. Alastair's accented drawl. Dean's relief to be freed from jail, to be away, specifically, from _one guard_. Castiel's hand contracts into a fist on the table. The veins in her wrist stand out as she squeezes her nails into her palm; it stings, and it's enough of an outlet for her to control the strong urge to get Dean out of that room.

She hears Uriel come in behind her, and it takes an overwhelming amount of willpower to remain seated and still. "What could you possibly hope to accomplish by this?" she demands. She aims to keep her voice conversational, but it's a battle she loses.

"Getting a little attached to our new puppet, Castiel?"

Castiel grits her teeth. "I just don't see why you're doing this. " She can't stop herself from adding, "And good luck treating Dean as a puppet."

Uriel hums noncommittally. He sounds _amused_. Castiel fights to calm herself.

"What,” she tries again, “do you hope to gain from this?"

"Oh, Castiel." Uriel pulls out a chair for himself and sits beside her, resting his hands possessively on the table. "There is so _much_ to be gained from this."

He pauses, presumably for dramatic effect, and Castiel waits with outward patience and inward irritation. Alastair is eyeing Dean like she's the first home-cooked meal he's seen in years; Dean, to her credit, doesn't even look at him, just keeps staring down as she flexes and curls her fingers, that hard set of her jaw that Castiel can recognize as fear-driven stubbornness.

"Alastair worked closely under our dear brother Luke," Uriel says finally. Castiel watches Dean, watches Alastair, doesn't look at her brother. "It's quite likely he has information that we could use. If we're lucky, Deanna will tear into him, and we'll step in when he starts to beg for mercy—promise him lenience so long as he tells us what we want to know." Uriel shrugs. "Maybe he doesn't know anything, and we'll just let Deanna kill him. It'll be perfect for observing her methods up close, and we'll have footage for review later. Since you've been unsuccessful getting her to kill anyone, we could use the practical knowledge." Castiel takes the dig silently. As well as she's done with Dean, it's true that she's failed to coerce her into fatal violence.

As Uriel and Castiel settle into silence, Alastair starts up again.

"Such a cold greeting for an old friend," he chides, without sounding all that put out. "Dean, haven't you missed me?"

Dean does not look at him. "Go to Hell," she tells the floor emphatically.

Alastair makes a little disapproving, disappointed sound, but still the smile, still the smugness. He projects an image of control, like he's not the one in the room who's secured to the table, like he knows he could overpower Dean if the need arises. In combination with Dean's discomfort, his confidence is unsettling.

Rustling breaks the quiet of the dark room as Uriel leans back in his chair, crossing his legs.

Forearms resting on the table, Castiel laces her fingers together, squeezing her hands to release her mounting unease. She swallows before she speaks, suddenly uncertain that her voice won't be too loud or too rough in the tense quiet.

"Who is he to Dean?"

The bright room looks cage-like, trapping Dean and Alastair together, and Dean looks like the cornered one while Alastair surveys his small kingdom, pale eyes in constant motion. The intense lighting of the room does his washed-out skin no favors; his paleness and wiry frame would make him look sickly and weak, if it weren't for the powerful way he holds himself.

When Uriel's answer is not forthcoming, Castiel turns her gaze to him instead. He is powerful too, strength and mass and skill wrapped in a suitably impressive package. Cooly, he stares at her, an eyebrow half raised. "You're sure you want to know, Castiel?"

Castiel narrows her eyes and straightens her shoulders, returning his gaze. "I am not a child, Uriel."

Amusement passes over his face, lingering only in his eyes and upturned lips. "Suit yourself." He folds his hands on his knee, reclining in his chair but maintaining immaculate posture. "Alastair, until very recently, worked as a guard at the South Dakota State Penitentiary."

Castiel nods, though she knew that. The confirmation is nice.

"He had an ardor for... _unconventional_ disciplinary measures."

Castiel looks away from her brother, stares instead at her own hands, knuckles turning white.

"We have reports that say he took a special interest in Deanna. Thought he could turn her into the 'perfect prisoner.'" Uriel chuckles, a dark tone in a dark room. Seeking comfort in familiarity, Castiel adjusts her posture, sitting up as straight as she can. "Sounded to me like he wanted to manufacture Stockholm syndrome," Uriel admits, "but we doubt she was in there long enough for him to affect her." He pauses, and Castiel can feel his eyes on her. She relaxes her hands, but doesn't meet his gaze. "I'm sorry," he says. His smile is audible. "I didn't answer your question directly, did I?"

He pauses again.

Thankfully, when he continues, any amusement is gone from his voice. "Who is he to Dean? He's her abuser, you could say. Her assaulter. That one prison guard nobody wants attention from."

Alastair is still smiling, smug. Dean is still not looking at him.

Castiel closes her eyes.

_And you left her alone in a room with him? The potential value of her potential outburst is more valuable to you than her safety? How could you do this?_

But of course her value is in her violence, no matter how it's provoked. She was brought here as an asset, not as a new friend. Has Castiel forgotten that?

Still, whether as friend or asset (or human being in general), Dean doesn't deserve this.

"This is _wrong_."

It comes out with more vehemence than Castiel had intended.

She opens her eyes only when she is sure they will remain hard under the inspection of her brother.

He's smiling faintly. "Oh?" That godawful, perpetual _amusement_ of his.

"You can't do this, Uriel. Dean is a _person_ _;_ she can't be treated as less than. We can't leave her in there with that monster, not after everything he's—"

" _Enough_ , Castiel." A rarely seen anger burns in Uriel's eyes, righteous and unforgiving. "She is not a person, and does not deserve to be treated like one. She lost that right when she killed six innocent people."

Castiel glares at him defiantly, and he shakes his head. "She's one of the bad ones, Castiel. One of the ones we would've disposed of long ago, if Michael didn't need her alive."

"She killed those people for the same reason we kill! In her eyes, they deserved it, for what happened to her sister. You can't begrudge her that mistake!"

"It was more than a mistake. Those people did not deserve death. Your new pal, on the other hand... well. We'll use her if she cooperates, and if she doesn't, we'll decide what exactly she deserves."

Castiel opens her mouth to protest, but Uriel cuts her off.

"No, Castiel. Your orders are to stay here and take note of everything that happens, and under _no_ circumstances interfere. Can I trust you to do your job, or do I need to find someone else? Rachel helped us get him here—she worked her first job in the field while you were away, did you know that? We didn't expect to have such trouble bringing him in, but Rachel performed well; I'm sure she wouldn't mind taking over for you, if—"

"I'll do it," Castiel grits out.

"Excellent," Uriel smiles. "Then I'll leave you to it."

He leaves the room, and Castiel sinks back in her chair, staring expressionlessly through the window and focusing on detaching herself from the situation. It's a task that proves more difficult than normal.

Dean does not deserve this. If she doesn't cooperate, she will be killed, and she doesn't deserve that either. It's funny, Castiel thinks, that she has spent her whole life helping rid the world of bad people, and now she wants to protect one.

But Dean doesn't feel like a bad person, to Castiel. The world gave her bad cards, and she lashed out; that doesn't mean she ought to die.

When did things get so complicated? When did Castiel lose her clear sense of right and wrong?

Has her family been wrong before?

Are they wrong now? Not just about Dean—about Luke, too; is Michael's entire crusade in error?

Surely not. Surely they are doing innocent people a service, protecting them from bad people. People like Dean. But Dean isn't bad.

Castiel takes a long, slow breath, and forces herself to stop thinking.

 

She turns the speakers off.

Hearing Alastair taunt Dean is exhausting and frustrating and unproductive; she won't be missing anything. She tries not to feel like she's taking the easy route out, leaving Dean alone to hear his words. It doesn't make a difference if Castiel hears them or not. She's not abandoning Dean.

She resents the feeling that she is.

The clock moves slowly, fifteen minutes feeling like an hour, each minute ticking past slower than the last. Castiel can see Alastair's mouth move, and Dean's jaw clench. She can see the outline of a gun in Dean's waistband. She cannot fathom how—or why—Dean has refrained from shooting him.

With each minute that Uriel does not return, Castiel has to shake off the false feeling that no one is watching her, that she could stand up and pull out her keys and let Dean free of that room. The cameras would alert the guard on duty to her movement. She'd be stopped, and punished, and Dean would only be forced back to Alastair.

Helplessness is a terrible feeling.

Castiel sits.

Watches.

Waits.

Dean has incredible patience and self control, even if Castiel does not know why she's bothering to control herself. She must long to introduce Alastair to her gun, to place it against his head and empty it into his skull. It's what Michael is hoping for. It's exactly the show he wants her to put on. She wouldn't be punished for it— _praised_ , maybe, so why wouldn't she...

Oh.

That could be it. _It's what Michael is hoping for._ Is Dean really so stubborn that she would stop herself from shooting the man who once made her life a living Hell just for the sake of being uncooperative?

It's a ridiculous notion.

It seems in character.

Castiel has no idea why there's a smile tugging at her lips all of a sudden.

 

Dean has been in that room for one hour and seven minutes when she pulls her gun. Having slumped down to the floor, she rises to her feet with a fast, fluid motion, gun in her hand and fire in her eyes as she crosses over to Alastair. Castiel doesn't know what he said to make her snap, but she hastens to turn the speakers back on now.

Dean stands behind him, and places a hand on either side of his head to hold it still when he tries to twist to look at her. Her gun, still in her hand, presses against his skin. He stills when he feels it.

"Don't you _dare_ say that," Dean warns. "It is _not_ my fault Sam is gone."

Castiel leans forward. A sick curiosity has taken ahold of her, one that draws her in and repulses her all at once. She shouldn't be _intrigued_ by this cruelty, shouldn't be interested in seeing what happens to Dean when she breaks.

Castiel's eyes are wide, unblinking, as she watches Dean stroke one hand through Alastair's hair.

"You don't really believe that, do you, sweetheart?"

"I've dreamt of this moment," Dean murmurs as if she hadn't heard him. Her fingers curl into a fist, still in Alastair's short, greasy hair, and she tugs his head back as she raises the gun to his temple.

Alastair's laughter makes Castiel's shoulders tense and her hand jump instinctively in the direction of her knife.

"Oh, Dean," he drawls. His voice is a raspy sort of coo, thin and threatening and sickly-sweet. "Do you really think this is gonna fix you? Give you... closure? Oh, that is sad." He frowns. "That's _really_ sad." Dean flicks the safety off, right next to his ear, and he lilts, "Sad, sad."

"Shut up," Dean says quietly.

"Mm, no, I don't think so. It gets so lonely at work sometimes; none of them like to listen to me. But you're listening to me, aren't you, Dean—"

"Well, then I'll just make you shut up." She grabs him under the chin and tips his head back, directing her gun against his lips. He keeps his mouth closed, and Dean smirks. "That's what I thought."

Castiel watches Dean's eyes narrow as she stares down at Alastair, licking her lips.

"Now," she says definitively, "you open your mouth again, I put a bullet through your brain. Got it?"

Alastair nods, lips curling into a sneer as Dean removes her gun.

Dean nods. "Good."

And then she retreats to sit on the floor again, leaning back against the wall.

It's the most exciting thing that happens all day.

 

Uriel returns at around seven in the evening, bearing a plate of dinner for Castiel and an expectant expression. "Well?" he greets her. "See anything interesting?"

Castiel doesn't remove her eyes from the bright room, watching Dean take apart and reassemble her gun repetitively. "Nothing of any import."

"The guard is still alive," Uriel observes.

Castiel inclines her head, feeling Uriel's eyes on her. Just inside the doorway and still standing, he's in a position of power over Castiel's seated posture. She resists the urge to shift in her chair, refusing to exhibit her discomfort.

"Do you think Dean will attack him given more time, or do we need do give her some incentive?"

Castiel stares as Dean jams the base of her gun back together with the rest of it, then flips it neatly in her fingers and begins to take it apart again. "She went after him once, today. Held a gun to his head, threatened him. She didn't seem inclined to hurt him unprovoked, but from what i've seen today, I don't have doubt that he will provoke her again." Castiel turns in her chair to look at Uriel. "I'd suggest giving her another day without interference."

Uriel crosses his arms. "And is that your professional recommendation, or your skewed sense of responsibility for this girl?"

Castiel presses her lips together. She stares at him for a moment, at his raised eyebrows and slight smirk. "Professional recommendation."

"Yeah," Uriel chuckles. "All right." He turns to leave, but stops in the doorway, hand on the frame. "If you stop in to give her a goodnight kiss, let Dean know we'll make things much easier for her if she cooperates."

Castiel looks back through the window without a word of goodbye.

 

Dean sits on her bed, slumped back against the wall much the same as she'd slumped in the interrogation room. She pushes her chicken around her plate with a fork, staring resolutely at it rather than at Castiel. Castiel folds her hands in her lap and watches quietly, debating whether or not she should just leave. It's clear that Dean has no interest in speaking with her. That stings more than Castiel is comfortable with.

Rachel arrived shortly after Uriel to escort Alastair back to a holding room (the one as far down the hall from Dean's as possible), and Castiel had had a brief moment to congratulate her on her first job before Rachel was asking her to take Dean back downstairs. Rachel brought both prisoners dinner, at least, before climbing the stairs towards bed.

Castiel is not certain why she's still sitting here.

Dean puts her plate down on the bed, fork clacking against it as she drops that, too. She looks up at Castiel with a wordless, sullen expression. Castiel stares back impassively. Dean has every right to be upset with her. What they did to her today was cruel and inhumane, and Castiel is, to her own surprise, upset with _herself_ for not doing anything to stop it.

Perhaps she owes Dean an apology.

Or perhaps she needs to distance herself from the situation, from Dean, from these... these _emotions_. Emotions are doorways to doubt. Castiel can already feel the uncertainty creeping inside. She can't allow emotion to cloud her judgement; her job is not to befriend the hostage, it is to gain information.

Although, it would be reasonable to assume that Dean will not be inclined to share any further information unless Castiel does seek to make amends. Definitely reasonable. Castiel presses her lips together, and formulates a careful apology, and pretends that her sole interest is in gaining Dean's trust for the sake of information.

Shifting her focus back to the outward situation, it occurs to Castiel that they've been staring at each other in silence for what might be an unseemly length of time. Dean's face is blank and uncaring. Castiel sighs. 

"I believe I owe you an apology, Dean."

Dean rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. "Y'think?"

"Dean, you have to believe me," Castiel says, leaning forward, "had I known what they had planned for you, I would've—"

"You would've what?" Dean snaps. "Told them to quit being mean? Sorry, Cas. I don't think you have that kinda pull around here."

"I don't make the decisions, no," Castiel says calmly. "But my opinions do carry weight. I would've done anything within my power to stop them from putting you in that room."

Dean uncrosses her arms and looks down, picking at a fingernail with a small, wry smile on her face. It's not as nice as her real smiles. "And now what?" she asks.

Castiel hesitates, but Dean doesn't elaborate.

"What do you mean?"

Dean looks up again, aggravation overtaking the clean canvas of her face. "I mean, now what? Now that you're in the loop, are you gonna do anything? Or is it just 'too late, oops, guess you'll have to spend another week locked up with the guy who abused you for four months.'?" She stares as fiercely as she fights, deadly-intense gaze holding Castiel immobile for a long, long moment.

When Castiel finally finds the will to tear her eyes away, she does so with a nagging sense of defeat.

Dean is smirking when Castiel chances another quick glance. 

"Yeah," she says. "That's what I thought."

Feeling cowardly, Castiel stares at Dean in earnest, but only once she's looked down at her hands again. "Dean," she presses, "your gun will not be taken from you. If you would just shoot him—"

" _No_. Damn it, Cas! I don't care if you lock me up in a basement, I don't care if you don't tell me what the Hell's going on, I don't care if you want me to find people for you or clean weapons all goddamn day—but I'm _not_ letting you turn me into a monster!"

"Dean," Castiel says quietly, "you know what that man did to inmates, you know he deserves it—"

"What if he doesn't?!" Dean looks up, eyes wide, wild. "What if he's got two little girls at home who need him to come home and tuck them into bed? I already..." Dean's voice drops. "I already killed one person's little sister. I'm not making that mistake again."

Castiel blinks. "Are you saying you regret your kills?"

"No," Dean bites out.

She hesitates.

"Maybe. I don't know."

Castiel stares down at her own hands, twisting them together in her lap.

"It's just..." Dean starts, "what if they deserve it, but they've got people who need them? Or—or what if they just fucked up, and they're not really bad people? I don't _know_ , Cas, and it's driving me crazy, but I can't.... I'm not gonna kill _more_ people just 'cause that's what you dickbags want. I won't let you turn me into something I don't wanna be."

The perfect words of guidance and consolation don't pop into Castiel's head. She wishes they would. She wishes she could stop being so damn _useless_ ; she failed Dean today, and she's failed her family with her doubts, and she still can't get rid of all this damn uncertainty.

Instead of saying anything useful, Castiel just asks insensitively, "Do you really blame yourself for the death of your sister?"

" _Damn_ it, Cas! Get out of my room!"

Castiel, for an ironic change, does as she's told without question.

 

It becomes apparent at five fifty-five the next morning, when Uriel appears outside Castiel's door, that Rachel has abandoned all Dean Winchester-related duties. "She's need elsewhere," is Uriel's explanation, but Castiel hears it for what it is: "You're doing extra grunt work until we're sure you're still trustworthy."

And so, Castiel finds herself escorting a very bad-tempered Dean back to the interrogation rooms.

"I'm truly sorry, Dean," she says quietly as they walk, but Dean just yanks her arm out of Castiel's grasp and walks the rest of the way several feet to Castiel's right. Castiel is saddened to find that she can't blame Dean for creating the distance.

 _I'm sorry_ , she thinks again, but doesn't say it aloud, because it won't heal any of Dean's wounds, and because Castiel resents that the one thing she is certain of right now is that she has done the wrong thing in this situation. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ The words mean nothing, but Castiel feels them with more significance than she ever has before.

The door to the bright half of the interrogation room is heavy when Castiel pulls it open for Dean. She watches apologetically as Dean steps through, but Dean doesn't bother giving her half a glance.

Castiel deserves that. She deserves worse, as she lets the door swing closed and lock, heading to the dim room to observe for another miserable day. Uriel has warned her that security will be keeping an eye on these rooms, so "don't get any wild ideas." Castiel isn't sure she's ever had a wild idea in her life. She sinks into the same chair as yesterday and stares through the two-way mirror and tries desperately to ignore her feelings of guilt.

 

Castiel crosses her legs, uncrosses them, folds her hands, spreads her fingers on the table, taps her foot on the floor, shifts her weight in her chair repetitively. If she tells herself enough times that she's not uncomfortable, perhaps she will eventually convince herself.

Uriel stops by sometime midmorning, to ask how things are going. Castiel gives him a full report: "Nothing has happened." She assures him she told Dean that things would get better if she would cooperate, and that she knows she's allowed to harm Alastair, then turns back to the window as Uriel leaves.

Dean, after an hour or so of sitting silently in a corner, takes to repeatedly reassembling her gun again as Castiel taps her fingers rapidly against her arm. Dean snaps pieces back together with fast, angry motions, and Castiel watches, clearing her mind of anything but the task of observation.

Alastair has apparently taken to heart Dean's warning to stay silent. He hasn't opened his mouth once all day. The speakers are turned on at medium volume, loud enough for Castiel to hear the pieces of Dean's gun tap against the floor when she sets them down, lock back together when she lines them up. Alastair drums his fingers against the tabletop intermittently, adding an odd rhythm to the sound of Dean's gun.

Castiel crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, frustrated with the stiffness that comes along with sitting still for days in a row. This time would be better spent training—with Rachel, or maybe with Dean. An ache starts up in her shoulders, and she sits up straighter, ignoring it.

When Alastair speaks, it's going on one thirty. He smiles slowly, opens his mouth, says, "Dean, I really remember your company being more interesting when we used to spend time together," and has a gun leveled at his head by the end of his sentence.

Castiel sits forward in her chair.

"No talking, remember?"

"Hmmmm," Alastair sing-songs, "no. That's no fun."

Dean rises to her feet, gun steady.

"What, you're really gonna shoot me?" Alastair is still smiling, still smug. How does he know she won't do it? She is stubborn, but not without her limits; and he doesn't even know the leniency she stands to gain if she follows through. A frown tugs at the corners of Castiel's lips.

Dean looks to be pondering his question, and her next course of action. "Yeah," she decides. "Yeah, I think I am gonna shoot you." She turns to face the two-way mirror (Castiel doesn't think she's been told that that's what it is, but it's not a difficult conclusion to reach). "Hey," Dean shouts, "Cas, you in there?"

Castiel tenses her jaw.

"I'm gonna do it, Cas!" She raises her arms in a shrug, smiles an unhappy little smile. "Look at that, you broke me. Awesome job." Christ, her eyes burn with unhappiness. It almost looks familiar, almost like the sense of failure that Castiel is finding herself more and more closely acquainted with. But then, of course Dean feels as though she's failed. She decided she didn't want to turn into this, didn't want to kill again, but Castiel and Uriel and Michael have driven her until she snapped. "You guys throw a nice victory party, okay?" Dean smiles viciously, eyes closing off like she's resigning herself to this.

This. "This" being taking another life even though she will hate herself for it. "This" being Castiel's fault, _not_ Dean's, for allowing this to continue.

Castiel stares, captivated by the dullness that overtakes Dean's eyes the longer Dean stares back through the two-way mirror. Her entire body aches to rise from the chair and stop her from doing this.

But that would be against orders.

She would be punished.

Dean might be punished.

They would gain nothing from this ordeal.

Perhaps Uriel plans to stop the proceedings just before Dean pulls the trigger—he claimed it possible that Alastair had information. 

Castiel remains in her chair, though her eyes follow Dean's every movement. And that, that is her mistake—she has focused too fully on Dean for too long, and she's failed to see that Alastair has somehow, impossibly, freed himself from his bindings.

"You should talk to someone about those cuffs," he drawls, and stands, knocking the gun from Dean's hand before she has a chance to aim.

"Damn it," Castiel breathes, half rising from her chair.

Dean moves in to strike him, but he catches her arm. His left fist rises, catches the underside of her jaw. She twists, frees herself, lands a punch to his cheek. She swings again and he grabs her fist. His other hand curls and connects with her eye, and Castiel is out of her seat and half out the door before it occurs to her that going into that room would almost certainly be considered "interfering." She pauses in the doorway, half turned and staring. Alastair takes a step forward with each blow to Dean's face, forcing her back towards the wall. She struggles, but he has her by the arm and her attacks are easy to evade. It doesn't help matters that his fist meets her face once every few seconds; she tries to curl in on herself, but his grip on her arm prevents it.

" _Fuck_ ," Castiel can hear her groan, and she coughs, spits, lips coming up bloody.

Castiel is frozen at the door. Indecision feels like it might physically tear her in two: she can't go in there; she can't _not_ go in there.

Dean manages a kick to Alastair's leg. He stumbles, a little. Dean wrenches her arm away, gets a fist to his face, a hand to the back of his neck, a knee to his nose. A short, raw yell leaves his mouth, and he stands, nose bloodied. Dean swings again. He's too fast. A hand to her arm, the other to her shoulder, he jerks her around and tugs her back against him, then shoves her forward into the wall.

A dull, horribly loud thud comes through the speakers, and Dean slides down, managing at least to turn and end up sitting. Her nose leaks blood; her lips are painted with it; the skin around her eyes is already bruising. Her smirk is formed on a swelling mouth. "That all y' got?" she slurs, and something inside of Castiel twists. It's frustration, and pride, and fear all at once, and Castiel's throat feels too tight, and her stomach turns. Dean is grinning, dazed, half slumped over. Alastair tugs her partway up the wall by the collar of her jacket, punches her again, and again, and again. Dean smirks at him when she's not too busy grimacing. Alastair's expression is smooth, savage satisfaction. Castiel imagines her own might be described as _pained_.

She stays where she is. Doesn't sit down again, but suppresses the urge to interfere.

The skin of Dean's face is bruised raw pink everywhere it isn't covered in blood. Her head lolls, rolls with every punch, neck weak and limbs limp. Her smirk fades. Her eyes, one of them swollen, the other only slightly less so, blink open less frequently.

Would he beat her to _death_?

Castiel doesn't want to risk it.

But she's not allowed to interfere.

A sadistic grin grows on Alastair's face.

Dean is so fast and strong and smart, and he's subdued her with such ease. Castiel's fighting skills are matched with Dean's; he could overpower her just the same. Castiel hesitates, heart beating hard and fast and painful against her ribcage.

A cracked, pathetic whimper finds its way through the speakers.

Castiel draws her knife and exits the dim room.

There's no one in the hallway, no one outside the door to the bright room. Castiel grips her keys tightly to keep them from jingling as she pulls them from her pocket, selecting the correct one and separating it from the others. She fits it in the lock as quietly as she can, ears straining, relief and dismay mingling when the muted, steady thwacks of Alastair's fist carry on uninterrupted. Again in the interest of discretion, Castiel turns the knob slowly, quietly, completely before pushing the door inward. Alastair's back is to her. That's good. Keys back in pocket, knife turned hilt-up, blade-down in her grip, raised, ready. She takes one step forward, slow, slow, slow, slow. Another step. Her shoes are louder than she'd like, but as long as she times her steps well, he won't hear her.

Dean should've seen her by now, but Dean's eyes have closed and stopped opening again.

Another step. Right foot, left foot. It's a small room; she's crossed more than half the distance.

Dean appears lifeless, and it's chilling even though Castiel knows the time between unconsciousness and death would be longer than a span of minutes.

Right, left.

Castiel slows even further, nearing Alastair.

She's five feet away, four, three.

He hears her, spins, fist raised, eyes wide. Castiel lunges forward, brings her knife down, doesn't bother to dodge the fist that catches her across the jaw. She stumbles, keeps her feet, drives her knife harder into his chest, _twists_ once it's in. Pulls it back out with a soft, wet noise while he's still gasping, watches the blood pour out faster with nothing blocking the way.

Dean coughs. Her eyes stay closed.

Alastair stumbles forward, bloody hand—Dean's blood—reaching for Castiel, but he's slow, startled, easy to side-step. He tumbles to the floor, hand fluttering at his bloody chest. She aimed well, knows she did; he will die. Not now, not quickly—but he will die.

She hadn't bothered to close the door behind her. There's noise from the hallway. That's right: she'd interfered; security was watching. Uriel will not approve. She will be marked untrustworthy. She will be punished, discredited, disallowed from high-profile jobs. She doesn't know how physical the punishment may be. Doesn't know how psychological. Doesn't know if Dean will be punished, too, for not cooperating.

Doesn't know how Alastair escaped—how did he escape? The cuffs are quality-checked before every use, double-checked whenever a hostage is moved to a new location. There's no way he got out of them on his own. But what other explanation is there? Could one of Castiel's siblings have tampered with his bonds? Surely not. Who would do such a thing? Who would even have access?

Castiel's eyes are on Dean—motionless, soundless Dean—and she doesn't look to see who it is taking her by the arm and tugging her from the room.

She's half led, half pulled down the hallway, only slowly becoming aware of the direction she's going. It's Uriel who's escorting her, mouth set in a thin line, face hard and unrevealing.

They don't walk for long before arriving at the door to Castiel's sleeping quarters, but it's long enough for her to come back to herself, mind kicking into overdrive to make up for its momentary, shocked lapse. Is she being taken to gather her things before being forced out? That's unrealistic; Uriel wouldn't risk freeing anyone with any information whatsoever. If not that, then what will they do to her? What will happen to Dean? Alastair? Will Uriel be blamed for not handling Castiel? Will Dean be blamed for provoking her? The price of emotion is doubt and uncertainty, but what is the price now that she's acted on that doubt? Castiel has been slipping ever since she let Anna go. No, before that—Castiel has been slipping since the moment she held a knife to Tracy Davis's throat and wondered at her innocence. Castiel has been slipping since she allowed Dean to impact her thoughts and actions. And now she'll pay the price, whatever it may be.

Uriel stands with his back to Castiel's door, releasing her in benefit of crossing his arms. His expression is still concealed, but his eyes flicker with anger. Castiel folds her hands in front of herself in supplication, meeting her brother's eyes as humbly as she is able. He stares at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed in thought.

"What," he says finally, tone low, "could you _possibly_ have been thinking?"

Castiel does not look away, but does straighten her shoulders in discomfort. She considers her answer before giving it. "He attacked her. Overpowered her. There was chance of him killing her, and I thought—"

"You thought?" Uriel's eyebrows are raised. "You thought? Your orders have never been to _think_ , Castiel." No sign of amusement crosses his face, but he chuckles. "And I _thought_ I could trust you," he says. "To follow orders, not to interfere."

"After the trouble we've gone through attaining a new asset, forgive me, but I thought you might like her alive!"

A quickly-stifled blaze of anger dances behind Uriel's eyes, gone and replaced again with calm in a matter of seconds. Why has Castiel forgotten how to control her own emotions?

"Listen to me, Castiel." Uriel's voice has dropped, low and urgent as he leans in. She's hesitant to step closer, hesitant while there's still the promise of anger, but she doesn't dare cause more trouble than she has already. She steps in minutely, just close enough to hear him as he continues in quiet tones. "What Michael is trying to do..." Uriel glances left to right, licks his lips, looks back to Castiel, who finds herself with a slight frown affixed to her lips. "It's not _right_ , Castiel. He must be stopped."

"But—"

Uriel's eyes warn her to stay silent. She obliges; her insubordination was a lapse, not the beginning of a pattern.

"Michael wants Dean to get him close to Luke. She's broken into his office before, he believes she can do it again—don't you see, Castiel, this is _it_. He's been trying to gain access to that fortress of a prison for years now. He knows that between Luke's house and office, the office is the easier shot, and he's finally close."

"Isn't this good news?" Castiel implores, and has the pleasure of an up close view of her brother's face turning stormy.

"No, Castiel. Our brother does good work. He protects people."

Castiel is nodding, but Uriel shakes his head.

"Not Michael, Castiel. _Luke_."

"You're mistaken—"

"I am not mistaken. Michael has pulled the wool over your eyes, and that's to be expected, but you must listen to me now."

Castiel presses her lips together, clenches her clasped hands. She gives a curt nod, one that Uriel returns as he continues.

"Michael has told you he is saving people—ridding the world of dangers to protect the innocents."

"It's what we've always done."

"No, Castiel. It's what we _used_ to do. When father was still here, our cause was just, our actions were righteous... but he's been gone for years. You remember the day he left, how Michael suffered." Castiel ducks her head at the memory, but Uriel keeps pressing. "He was damaged, and now is driven by a consuming desire for a revenge he'll stop at nothing to achieve."

"It's reasonable for him to want justice; Luke betrayed us all, turned our father over to the authorities—"

"And protected hundreds of lives by doing so."

"The people we kill deserve death! Eliminating them serves to protect all who would become their victims in the future."

"Potential future violence warrants death with no second chances?"

Castiel falters. "Yes," she says decisively, but she wavered a second too long; Uriel knows he has her conflicted, and he pushes against the crack of doubt inside her that seems to grow and grow and grow no matter how she tries to seal it up.

"Our brother does good work," Uriel tells her. He's quiet, but so sincere that he leaves no room for contradiction. "Luke does good work at the prison. He locks up the dangers we have tried so hard to eliminate. He protects the rest of the world without taking lives."

Tracy, even if truly dangerous, wouldn't have needed to be taken from the world, only put someplace she could do no harm. Anna would not need to die, nor Dean. Nor Alastair. That last is a less pleasant thought, but Castiel thinks of Dean and her moral confusion about killing him, and thinks that maybe even that could have its merits.

Yes, Castiel thinks of Dean, and thinks of Alastair, and thinks of Uriel's words... and arrives at a conclusion that only serves to throw more doubt into the jumble. "Dean is Michael's answer. Perhaps his last hope at reaching Luke."

Something shifts in Uriel's eyes as he understands where Castiel is going with this, something that makes Castiel's throat feel tight, because it might as well be confirmation.

She continues anyway. Clear, undebatable confirmation is important. "If she were gone..."

Uriel inclines his head. "Yes, Castiel. If Dean were to die, Michael would have lost his chance, and perhaps even give up his crusade."

"And if her death looked like an accident, all the better, right?"

Uriel doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to.

"You," Castiel says simply.

Uriel has the decency to cast his eyes downward. "I'm afraid so."

"You sabotaged the restraints, let Alastair at Dean."

"Alastair was... an unexpected opportunity. I'm not one to ignore a godsend." Uriel meets Castiel's eyes again, and his own are free of remorse. "Alastair should have killed Dean and been subdued before he could talk, and you and Michael should have gone on scapegoating him for the death of your precious new asset."

"What happened to protecting without taking lives?"

"Sacrifices must be made, Castiel. My actions were regrettable, but they were necessary." Castiel raises her eyebrows, and Uriel sighs. "Had Dean's life ended today, you'd be free to distrust me all you wish; but she's still alive, Castiel, so not only do my actions today not matter, I also must ask you to trust me because of the work still to be done."

Castiel gives him a long, narrow-eyed stare. Thankfully, she's able to cover the turmoil inside herself with a simple mask of suspicion, one that she holds while she considers all that she's been told.

How could she possibly even begin to work against Michael? He's been her guide since she was small, big brother Michael who always knew what to do. He was her moral compass, even more so than Anna or Uriel. How could he possibly be wrong? And about _this_? Luke is the reason Castiel's father is gone. He betrayed her entire family, biological and not. Surely Michael cannot be blamed for wanting revenge.

But maybe he does need to be stopped. If this were any other case, if Castiel was not so close to the situation, it's entirely possible that Michael would be their target: obsessive brother seeking to commit fratricide, likely to succeed, time sensitive case, Castiel, you better wrap this one up quick.

Castiel shakes herself internally, not allowing that thought to continue. It's too alien, too far outside her comfort zone, such a bizarre thing to think about her own _brother_. She will not betray Michael. She will not betray her family. She is not Luke, nor Anna... nor now, it seems, Uriel.

"You are foolish, Uriel, if you believe you can stop Michael."

Uriel raises his eyebrows, chuckling. "You're entitled to your opinion, Castiel." He pauses, amusement fading from his face until only calculation is left. He stares at her, and she stares back, and there's a moment of quiet in the hall. "You definitely won't join me, then." It's not a question so much as a statement awaiting confirmation.

Castiel hesitates only briefly. "I will not join you." She hesitates a moment longer before adding, "However... I will not take action against you. I don't believe you will succeed in stopping our brother, but if you do... then perhaps it is just. I'm not certain any longer, of what's right and what's not, but you seem to be, and I will not stop you."

On Uriel's lips forms possibly the most genuine smile Castiel has ever seen him give. His hand rises to her shoulder, which he squeezes gently. "Thank you, Castiel."

She gives him a businesslike nod, and he drops his hand from her shoulder, letting the smile slip from his face. "You understand I'm still expected to punish you for your actions this morning."

"I understand," Castiel says graciously.

Uriel looks hesitant—Castiel can count the number of times she's seen her brother look hesitant on the fingers of one hand—but after a short moment of consideration he nods, and speaks again. "You will be suspended from all active duties for the course of one month. You will be given training time in the interest of maintaining your skills, but you will spar only with Rachel or me, and you will train only under supervision. You are not allowed to be kept updated on any current affairs."

His eyes shift away as he pauses to think, then back to Castiel as he continues. "All time not spent training or assisting with upkeep of the house will be spent in your room; if for some reason you need to venture elsewhere, someone stationed outside your door will escort you if they deem your need to be valid."

Again, he looks hesitant, maybe apologetic. "I believe that's the best I can do for you, Castiel. I'd imagine Michael might prefer your punishment be more severe, but I'm inclined to be lenient with you."

Castiel blinks at him.

He smiles.

He's turning to open the door for her by the time she says, "Thank you," and closing it behind her when he says, "Of course, sister."

Castiel has a new, much more complicated idea of her brother as she crosses the distance to her bed and sits down slowly. She's not sure if he's earned more respect in her eyes, or less—but either way, she's grateful of his kindness regarding her punishment.

It's similar to her confliction over Anna: she still respects her sister, still believes _Anna_ believes she's doing the right thing... but how can she trust someone who is willing to disregard orders? It's not an idea that holds place in Castiel's mind, and not one that she understands.

There's some part of her that is... impressed, maybe. That Uriel is so certain of himself, is so sure of what's right and what's wrong. It's a confidence Castiel can't quite fathom. Castiel has always respected Uriel for his consistency following orders, and now... she might respect him for _not_ following orders? He has always been a better operative than Castiel, and now she is impressed by his skill as an anti-operative. It doesn't make sense. Doubt is confusing, and horrible, and Castiel lets herself tip sideways on the mattress, tucking her legs up onto the bed, not bothering to undress before closing her eyes.

She's certainly glad that Uriel didn't succeed in having Dean killed.

Inexplicably, she's sure that would've tainted her view of him.


	4. Chapter 4

Having her routine interrupted is far more disorienting than Castiel would've expected. She rises, as always, at five fifty in the morning. Alarm off, blankets back, feet on the floor, into the shower. She dresses, tucks her hair back, applies minimal make-up, and then finds herself standing at her door with nowhere to be and nothing to do.

She stands there for five minutes.

Stands, stares at the door.

She's never been punished like this before. She's hardly been punished at all, in her time working for Michael; the only punishment of significance she can recall was having to take on an extra three hours of work a day helping Chuck in the guard office (which really meant running everything while he drank himself to sleep at eight o'clock, but it wasn't too terrible). She can't even remember her specific offense.

Sitting down on her bed again feels wrong, but she can't think of anything else to do with herself.

Rachel brings her breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast—at eight o'clock, and finds Castiel wearing her sleep clothes again, alternating a series of sit-up variations.

After eating, they train for a few hours.

Castiel returns to her room. Takes a shower. Rachel brings lunch, and tells her she's welcome to help in the kitchen when she's done. She agrees, if only for lack of anything else on her schedule.

She's disconcerted when she returns to her room again that evening. Doing nothing leaves her feeling restless. She will ask Rachel to spend more time with her in the training rooms, and hopefully to begin earlier in the morning.

Washing her face and returning to the soft comfort of her pajamas, Castiel slides back between her bedsheets, feeling like she left them only moments ago.

Sleep comes slowly; neither her body nor her mind are tired, but sleep will pass the time, and surely if she just lies here long enough, it will come.

 

It's two seventeen when the phone on Castiel's beside table rings. It's a landline, and rarely used. Castiel blinks her eyes into a half open squint, and wrangles an arm free from the sheets to reach for the noisy monstrosity that's woken her.

"Hello?" Her voice is low and sleep-groggy, and she's just awake enough that it occurs to her to keep quiet, as someone is most likely alert outside her door.

"Heya, s'this Castiel? Did she give me the right number?"

Castiel blinks again, frowning.

"Ruby?" Why is _Ruby_ calling her? "How do you have this number?"

"How do you think? Your sister, of course."

Castiel closes her eyes, trying to drag herself into full alertness. "Anna? Anna gave you this number?"

"Yep—"

"Is everything all right? Is Anna... is Anna all right?"

Ruby scoffs. "Please. You think I'd let anything happen to that girl?"

"Then why have you called me, Ruby?"

"Anna here wants to talk to you."

Castiel blinks a few more times, doesn't bother erasing the frown from her face. The pillow is too warm against her cheek, and she shifts to a new spot even as panic curls through her, moving too slowly with sleep.

"Anna's still with you? I thought she would've been out of the state by now—did something go wrong?"

Ruby chuckles. "She is out of the state."

Remarkably, Castiel manages to frown harder. "I don't understand. If she's still with you, how is she... you're not—she didn't—" Castiel rubs her eyes with her fingertips, willing herself the rest of the way awake. "You're not... with her, are you?"

Ruby laughs again. "Well done, Detective."

"You are with her? Why? Where are you?"

"Slow down, sweetie. I'm not tellin' you where we are, but it's definitely too hot and lazy for your rapid-fire questions. You are _not_ gonna stress me out on my vacation."

"Fleeing the country isn't vacation," Castiel mutters, but Ruby's still talking.

"As for the why—have you seen your sister's legs?" Ruby lets out a low whistle, but cuts off with an abrupt laugh. "Stop it—stop—calm down, Angelface, I was just sayin' hello." There's muffled fumbling on the other end of the line, presumably as Anna wrests the phone from Ruby's grasp.

"Castiel?" Breathless, and definitely Anna.

"Anna," Castiel sighs. "It's good to hear your voice again."

"And you, Castiel."

"I'm glad to hear from you, of course, but... why have you risked calling? Is everything all right?"

Castiel can hear Ruby, somewhat muted, chime in "Better than all right!" before Anna shushes her.

Castiel can hear the smile in Anna's voice when she speaks again. "Yes, Castiel. Everything is fine. I won't tell you where we are, but we're out of the country and out of danger, thanks to you."

The warmth of Anna's tone makes something ache inside Castiel's chest. "I'm glad to hear it," she murmurs. It's strange, the new mindset she's arrived at since her last encounter with Anna. She still questions Anna's decision to turn her back on her family, but she thinks maybe she understands a little better. The resentment has certainly faded. Anna is happy where she is (wherever that may be), and happiness is possibly more compelling than Castiel had originally assessed. If the way she often feels around Dean is anything to go by, happiness is certainly more of a _temptation_ than she'd ever considered.

Maybe Anna's actions are understandable. Maybe they're _forgivable_.

Uriel's voice in her head points out helpfully that by that logic, Luke could be forgiven, too—but that's still too much of a stretch.

"Why have you called, if not for help?" Castiel asks eventually. "Not that I mind, but there is risk in calling this house."

"I didn't call because _I_ need help, Castiel. I've called because I spoke with Uriel this morning."

"It's not morning yet," Castiel grumbles, but Anna ignores this.

"He said he made an attempt to stop Michael, and that you discovered him."

"That's... true, yes," Castiel agrees. Then a frown tugs at her lips. "Uriel knows of your escape?"

Anna laughs lightly. "Yes. He had no doubt that you would spare me."

Castiel hesitates, unsure if she should be offended.

Anna's gentle voice fills in for her. "Castiel... he also said you declined the opportunity to help him."

"Of course I did, Anna. It's... it's _madness_ , what he's talking about."

Anna's side of the line falls quiet.

Castiel blinks. "You want me to help him."

Anna sighs, and Castiel starts gathering counterarguments in her mind. "I want..." Anna begins. She sighs again, and Castiel wishes Anna would hurry up so she could go back to sleep, but bites her tongue. "I want you to be _safe_ , Castiel. Not—not physically, I don't worry that you'll come to that kind of harm through this, but I..." Another sigh. Castiel lets her eyes slip closed, frowning again. "Your sense of right and wrong defines you, and I worry that you'll be damaged if Michael uses you to do the wrong thing."

Castiel's eyes open wide. "You worry I'll be _damaged_? You worry I'll let him _use_ me for something unsavory? Do you have no respect for me?"

"Castiel, that's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?"

There's a pause, in which Castiel can hear Anna suppress yet another sigh. 

"I simply meant," she says finally, "that Michael's goals are not as altruistic as they may seem. I worry that he'll misuse your loyalty, make you do something you'll regret."

"I can handle myself, Anna," Castiel says quietly. The past few days she's wished for Anna's guidance, wished for all the world that someone would tell her what was right, because she's no longer sure that she _can_ handle herself. But she's not telling Anna that. Anna is gone. She left them. She left _Castiel_ _._ She has no place making accusations.

"I know you can, Castiel. Of course." The warmth is back in her voice, returning that ache to Castiel's chest.

"Anna..."

"Just be careful, all right?" Her smile is audible, soft and familiar. Castiel feels astoundingly lost in her absence, even more so than she'd realized until this strange, middle of the night conversation. "And Castiel? Trust yourself. You're feeling doubt now, and it's confusing; you'll want to stick to the safety of things that are familiar—but promise me you'll trust yourself. If something feels wrong to you, you get out, okay?"

"Get out?" Castiel echoes.

"Yes, Castiel. Find a way out of whatever feels wrong. Fail a mission, or join Uriel, or join me on 'vacation' as Ruby is so fond of calling it—protect yourself, Castiel. I'm not there to do it anymore."

She hangs up.

It's an abrupt ending. Castiel is given no chance to protest, or question, or even say goodbye.

She drops the phone back into its cradle and rolls onto her other side, grateful that sleep puts a quick end to her newly stirred thoughts.

 

Rachel brings Castiel breakfast again the next morning, and trains with her when she's finished. 

Lunch is sitting just inside her door once she's taken a shower.

Upon asking, Castiel is told she's been permitted to help sort through papers in the file room, and that occupies her until evening.

She resents the fact that now not only is she restless with nothing to do, her mind is also free to dwell on Anna's words from last night. It's not something she wants to think about, but it's certainly the most interesting train of thought currently available to her.

She wonders briefly where Anna has travelled to. Wonders at the fact that she allowed Ruby to accompany her. If Castiel had to run from the country, she can't imagine bringing a buddy along. But then, it wasn't long ago that she couldn't imagine disregarding orders, or experiencing doubt, or beginning to place value in happiness.

Disconcerting thoughts, all of them. The knock on the door must be Heaven-sent.

"Come in," Castiel calls, adjusting her shoulders where they lean against the headboard, setting aside the book that has not held her attention.

It's not Rachel.

Nor Uriel.

"...Dean?"

Dean grins. "Hey, Cas."

She looks weary. The smile is intact, and her steps are light, but underneath it all her eyes look heavy and her shoulders are slumped.

"How did you get in here?" Castiel asks, following it quickly with, "And are you all right?"

This earns her a snort. "Rachel let me in. Think she likes me." Dean stops in the middle of Castiel's floor to tug her boots off, and she's grinning when she looks back up. "Bet you she thinks I'm cute."

Castiel blinks. "Rachel is not... no." she says brilliantly.

Dean smirks at her before letting her expression fall into something softer. "Yeah," she says, as if that part of the conversation hadn't happened, "I'm okay." She stares at Castiel intently for a moment. "But dude, I'm not the one playing Rapunzel, here. Are _you_ okay?"

Castiel gives her a small smile as she plops down on the foot of Castiel's bed, bringing her legs up to sit cross-legged facing Castiel. "I'm okay, yes," Castiel assures her.

Dean smiles back. "Awesome. Was kinda worried about you, after all that ass-saving you did."

"My brother was able to keep my punishment minimal," Castiel admits. "I am very lucky."

"Awesome," Dean repeats, nodding. She drums her fingers against her thighs, nods her head, and gradually falls still. Her eyes seem to get stuck about halfway out across the floor.

The carpet is not _that_ interesting. Having been essentially locked in her room for the past two days, Castiel would know.

"Dean?" she ventures. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"What?" Dean's gaze lifts to Castiel. She manages a slight smile. "Yeah, yeah. I'm good."

Castiel narrows her eyes, and Dean shifts under her inspection, eyes flicking away. "You seem... off," Castiel decides.

Dean sighs. "Just leave it, Cas, okay? I'm fine."

"Dean, if you're being treated poorly, I could talk to my brother—"

"Which one?" Dean looks at her again, eyebrows raised. "'Cause I met another one of them, today."

Castiel goes entirely still. "Not..."

"Yeah," Dean says. Her smile is unhappy. "Michael."

Castiel presses her lips together, and closes her eyes. Michael does not take kindly to insubordination, and Dean has been far from a willing participant in her duties thus far. "What did he want?" She opens her eyes with some reluctance, watching Dean smile another wry smile and shake her head.

She stares at her lap as she talks. "Still wouldn't tell me why I'm so special," she says. "Just said he 'has work for me' and 'hopes we can get along.' Spent... oh, I don't know." Dean rubs at the back of her neck as she thinks. "A good four hours, at least, trying to convince me that our 'goals are aligned' or some shit." She shrugs. "I don't really buy it. Didn't make for a fun day, in any case."

Castiel frowns. "What did he mean by that? That your goals are aligned?"

Dean grimaces, and picks at a loose thread on the ankle hem of her jeans before answering. "He, um." She makes a pained face, rubs at the back of her neck again. "He wants me to help him kill someone. Warden of the place where I was locked up, actually."

Castiel nods.

"He said that... that the guy deserves it, and that I'd being doing the whole world a favor." Dean sighs. "I don't know. I killed the people I did because they _did_ deserve it, but..." She releases a quick huff of air. "But the guy who wanted Sam dead probably thought the same thing." The carpet has drawn her attention again. She stares at the floor, and Castiel stares at her, and there's a general sense of lostness in the room.

Castiel does not envy Dean her position. Having doubts while under pressure is far from pleasant, and being Michael's number one pet-project is more pressure-inducing than anything else Castiel can imagine.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Mmm."

Dean takes a deep breath, still staring out over the floor. "What do you think he'll do to me if I say no? If I tell him I'm not gonna kill this guy?"

Castiel presses her lips together. "I believe I recall you telling me you didn't care what happened to you."

"Fuck off," Dean says, but good-naturedly. "Maybe I changed my mind."

Castiel's eyebrows lift of their own accord. If she's remembering correctly (and she is), Dean's given reason for apathy was that there was "nothing out there for her anymore." Has that really changed in so short a time?

Dean's gone back to picking at her jeans, casting periodic, wary glances up at Castiel. And oh, that's right, Castiel is supposed to be considering what harm Michael might cause Dean if she's uncooperative, not contemplating the curiosities of Dean's change of heart.

Castiel's mouth feels dry when she swallows. "Given what I know of Michael's habits," she says slowly, "his most likely course of action would be to torture you until he was certain he'd gained as much information as possible, and then to let you die."

Dean nods like that doesn't surprise her, but her face has gone pale.

Castiel hesitates. "Dean... if you do as he asks, I'm sure—"

Dean huffs a defeated laugh, shaking her head. "No, Cas. I mean yeah, I hate the guy for letting a prisoner escape and kill my sister, but if there's any chance he can keep the rest of 'em locked up..." she shrugs again. Sighs, smiles, shakes her head. "I don't know. I don't know! Doesn't feel like it's my place to decide if he lives or dies, y'know?"

Castiel almost begins to nod, but catches herself. Then she hesitates, and does nod. "Yes," she admits. "I think I understand that feeling."

Dean gives her the tiniest of smiles. It fades quickly, though, and Dean returns to staring at her lap. Castiel misses Dean's real smiles, the happy ones, the careless ones. Seeing such a joy-filled person shut down is saddening.

 _This_ , Castiel thinks, _this_ is what they're supposed to protect the world from. Remove the danger, remove the fear, remove the sadness. They were going to fix it all, once. But now... are their goals really so noble?

Michael's focus has been on Luke for as long as Castiel can remember, more than half of their resources used in effort to circumvent his impressive security both at home and at work. Working with Michael for as long as he did, Luke knows all of his tricks and how to avoid them. This revenge has been a long-lasting, slow-moving mission for most of Castiel's life and... what good does it really do? Perhaps it will bring Michael some amount of closure. Perhaps it will alleviate his inability to trust.

Outside of Michael's personal gain, if they succeed they will have killed a man who has always done what he thought was the right thing, and possibly leave a prison in dangerous disarray.

That's the most confusing part of it all: Luke thought he was doing the right thing. Michael thinks he's doing the right thing, as well. Castiel's head is beginning to ache. Maybe Dean is right, and they should all stop pretending they have any right to decide who lives and dies.

"Did you ever meet him?" Castiel asks suddenly.

Dean looks up. "Who?"

"The warden. The one Michael wants your help with."

"Oh." Dean tucks her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs to hold them there. "Not really. He didn't really spend a lot of time interacting with us, mostly kept to himself. He has a daughter, did you know that?" Dean's mouth curves in a rueful smile. "Lilith. Sweet kid. He never brought her to work with him—smart guy—but he's got pictures of her in his office, and the guards say she's all he ever talks about." Dean shakes her head, fingers tightening on her arms. "God, Cas. I can't kill a guy with a little girl at home. My dad died and it... It, uh." She shakes her head, voice rough around the edges. "Me and Sammy barely made it, okay? I'm not doin' that to some little girl I've never even met."

Castiel folds her hands in her lap, grip tight to hide any unsteadiness. She hadn't known Luke had a child. 

"Was he... Was he a good warden? Were you provided for?"

Dean hesitates, frowning. "Why d'you wanna know?"

"Indulge me." Castiel lays her hands palm-up on her legs, open and nonthreatening.

Dean's eyes search her face for a moment. Whatever she sees must be encouraging, because she nods. "Yeah, okay. He was... pretty good. Didn't cut corners or anything, made sure we all had decent healthcare and stuff. Like I said, he wasn't around much, but I heard that when he's not finding ways to cut costs or hanging out with his kid, he spends time helping out at the FBI office in town." Dean shrugs. "Dunno how much of it's true, but he's painted kind of a saint by some of the people in his prison."

Castiel presses her lips together. Dean is looking at her curiously. It takes much more effort to keep her face blank than it should.

Not only has Luke become a _father_ in his absence, he's also become respected by the people who work for him, and by some of the people he keeps imprisoned. It's remarkable. It doesn't sound like the picture in Castiel's head, of the family-betraying, back-stabbing selfish child who would convict his own father in order to escape his responsibilities.

How is it that everything can become so confusing in so short a time?

Castiel's loyalties to Michael feel strained, her morals are conflicted and confused, and Anna told her to trust herself, but how can she trust herself if she has no idea what it is she's feeling? Her fingers ache to reach for the phone, to call every burner phone Anna has ever had, to call Ruby's house, to stare at the receiver until it connects to Anna through force of will. But Anna won't guide her anymore. Anna told her she has to do it for herself now. She can't be sure that Uriel is the one to trust, but she can't throw herself behind Michael anymore either.

Where does that leave her, except alone?

"Cas? Where'd you go, man?"

Not alone. Not entirely.

"I... Nowhere. I was thinking."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, I got that." She looks expectant, but graciously doesn't push.

Quiet fills the room, punctured only by the infrequent voices of people passing through the hallway. Castiel thinks she hears Uriel, once, but isn't sure. She thinks she might like to talk to him, soon. She'd like to ask what makes him say Luke does 'good work' at the prison, ask him what else he knows. The first step in any case is to gather information. That much, at least, is familiar.

Unfolding her arms from her legs, Dean leans forward and stretches her legs out behind her to lie on her stomach. She props herself up on her elbows, looking downward and picking at Castiel's white sheets. There's not much space on the bed between them, given that Castiel's own legs are extended forward. For several moments, Castiel finds herself distracted by the warmth she can just barely feel from Dean's body. She watches the muscles work in Dean's forearm as she plucks at the bedsheets, watches her shoulders move as she adjusts her position. Dean's shirt is light green, the long sleeves rolled up. Her hair is loose, spilling in a messy wave between her shoulders.

When Castiel becomes aware that she's staring, she drags her gaze away, back to the safety of her own clasped hands. She is not blind, nor ignorant. She can recognize the likelihood that Dean is a distraction to her in the same way that Ruby was a distraction to Anna. It's a curiosity, certainly, and something to be wary of, but in the midst of Castiel's current confusion, it's definitely not something Castiel can afford to indulge. She will thank Dean for sharing her information, and wish her luck with Michael, then ask her politely to leave the room; her presence will only make it more difficult to focus on discerning the correct path forward.

Castiel opens her mouth—but Dean speaks before she does.

"Cas?" She's raised her eyes now, shoulders tense and fingers stilled from their activity. The light coming in the window has been growing incrementally dimmer as they've sat, and the beginnings of long shadows across Dean's face make her look even more tired. She also looks worried, with wide eyes and a set jaw. She looks small.

Castiel hesitates only briefly. "Yes?"

Dean closes her eyes. She looks so _vulnerable_. What is it with this lighting?

"Cas...” Dean's voice is scratchy, strained. “I don't—” she swallows. “I don't wanna die," she admits quietly. She ducks her head again, her fingers curling into the sheets.

A sharp ache of protectiveness twists in Castiel's stomach. "Dean..." she says, but has nothing to follow it with.

"You could help me—get me out of here, Cas. I thought I wanted to die, I thought there'd never be anything I wanted anymore, but I was wrong—and you can help me, you have to help me. Please." There's panic riding just-concealed under her words.

Castiel winces, closing her own eyes so she doesn't have to look at Dean when she speaks. "I can't help you, Dean. There's nothing I can do. I'm sorry."

"Nothing you can do, or nothing you will?"

Castiel doesn't answer.

A quiet, tiny, unhappy laugh leaves Dean's lips. Her knuckles begin to turn white, with her death-grip on the sheets.

Castiel is uncertain, again, of what to do. Asking Dean to leave would still be wise, but at this point, Castiel doesn't think she could bring herself to ask it. Comforting her would be distinctly _un_ wise, but there's a definite desire to do so nestled somewhere in Castiel's chest, the emotions buried and hidden so well that she wouldn't have a clue how to get rid of them.

Besides, there's Castiel's utter lack of experience with comfort-giving to be considered. Anna's form of consoling was to sit in silence beside Castiel, but that's what Castiel is doing for Dean now, and it doesn't seem to be enough, given the tension running through the whole length of Dean's body. In her position, Castiel would likely soothe herself with measured breathing and focused muscle relaxation; somehow, she doesn't expect Dean would take well to Castiel attempting to coach her through the same.

"Dean," she says again. "Hey." Dean doesn't raise her head, but she allows Castiel to pry her fingers from the bedsheets. Castiel holds one of Dean's hands between both of her own, uncurling Dean's fingers and holding her hand flat until she's relaxed it. She does the same for Dean's other hand, and is pleased to note that, while still tense, Dean's shoulders are beginning to go lax as well.

When the tension is gone from Dean's forearm, Castiel lowers her left hand to the bed beside her right. She releases it from her hold—but Dean's grip tightens.

"Dean?" Castiel says to the top of Dean's head.

To no surprise, Dean doesn't reply. She does cling harder to Castiel's hand, though.

Warm, fluttery confliction runs through Castiel. In different circumstances, she thinks this could be something she could want, something that might make her happy. That she might want this, that she might like it—that's the very reason it's dangerous.

But Dean's grip only begins to loosen again when Castiel makes no move to pull away, and Castiel can see her shoulders draining of their tightness. Dean's hand is soft when she relaxes it, and warm, and big, slotted together with Castiel's own.

Castiel lets their joined hands drop to rest on the mattress.

Neither of them speak.

The voices from outside don't come anymore; it's late enough for almost everyone to be in their own rooms.

This is dangerous.

Castiel feels warm and tingly from the inside-out, and her heart beats with energy, her eyes not even close to drooping despite the progressive lateness of the hour.

This is dangerous.

Dean shifts to lie on her side; her eyes are still closed, but her lips, mostly relaxed, are curled in the soft suggestion of a smile—a real one.

This is dangerous.

Castiel _wants_.

 

Half of her bed is distinctly empty when Castiel awakes the following morning. She disregards a tiny pang of disappointment, and carries on with her morning as usual.

One day of boredom follows another.

Dean does not return that evening, nor the next.

Rachel only gives Castiel a sympathetic smile when she inquires about the progress of Michael's plans for Dean.

It's possible Dean is being tortured already. It's possible she's already agreed to cooperate.

 _It's possible_ , Castiel tells herself, _that Dean is sitting idly in her cell, perfectly safe, and that you are worried for no good reason._ It doesn't soothe her, doesn't help her to keep her mind away from that unallowed train of thought.

Uriel is somewhat more forthcoming. The third day since Castiel last saw Dean, he's standing in the center of the training room when Rachel and she walk in. He nods to Castiel and dismisses Rachel, and he grudgingly shares small pieces of information with her as they train with weights. Uriel discloses no information of any of his own plans, if he has any; but that's to be expected, and Castiel does not begrudge him his silence. He does share that Dean has been given until tomorrow morning to make her decision; if she agrees to cooperate, Michael has resources already in place, and plans to head for South Dakota immediately. Castiel learns that Michael has no plan in place for controlling things at the prison if Luke's death causes any chaos (it's evident that Uriel still hopes to convince her that Michael is not to be trusted. Castiel remains uncertain). She's also told that, in the event that Dean refuses to cooperate, Michael has had a room prepared and plans to torture her himself.

Castiel is grateful that the exertion of the training makes it easy to control her expression, and makes a response unnecessary.

She thanks Uriel, and offers him a small, heartfelt smile, and they progress into hand-to-hand training for the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon. It is good to spend time with her brother again. She regrets the truth that whatever happens over the next several days will likely alter their relationship permanently.

He kicks her ass on the shooting range, and as they part she makes sure to thank him for it.

 

It is a despondent Castiel that returns to her room that evening, having helped prepare dinner before eating her own quickly in the kitchen. Rachel closes the door behind her once she's in, and Castiel hears the lock turn in the handle.

It's not quite seven thirty, but Castiel changes into her sleepwear, switching off the overhead light and sitting on her bed by the glow of her lamp. She doesn't pick up a book, or a pen, and doesn't slide under her blankets. She has this _feeling_ , an indistinct, inexplicable knowledge that tonight is a turning point.

Well, maybe not so inexplicable. 

Tomorrow morning, if Castiel does not act, Michael will begin to torture Dean. Tonight is the last night that Castiel can tell herself that her inaction has caused no harm. This is her last chance to decide: is she with Michael, or against him? She doesn't think she really wants to be either. She certainly doesn't want to support him in this, but Uriel's hope of forcefully stopping him doesn't appeal to her either.

She begins to understand and respect Anna's decision to leave. Just being _away_ from all of this sounds like Heaven.

Running is an option, she supposes. It's never seemed like one before, but... she could do it. Thinks she might want to, even. It wouldn't take long to gather a small bag of things: spare clothes, a minimal supply of weapons, some cash. The garage would be easy to break into, and the car keys are all lined up on small gold hooks on the wall.

Getting out of her room has potential to pose a problem. It's possible Rachel would be willing to turn a blind eye—she let Dean enter a few nights ago, after all—but if she isn't amenable, then alerting her would halt Castiel's escape before it was even underway. There's a window in her room, but besides being much too high to jump from, it doesn't open wide enough for someone to get through; it could be smashed, but the noise would alert more than just Rachel, and Castiel would definitely not make it to the gates in time. Rachel could be subdued, she supposes. She could ask for lenience, and be prepared to gag her and tie her hands if help is not granted.

Castiel blinks. Without fully deciding to run, she's already laid out an entire plan (and a fairly viable one, at that).

Taking a slow breath, she checks the clock. Seven fifty-eight.

Running wouldn't actually serve to solve her problems, only to distance her from them. If she runs, Uriel will still be here to clash with Michael; Michael will still be here to go after Luke; Dean will still be here to be tortured and forced to divulge information that will leave a little girl fatherless. It's perhaps the most attractive option, perhaps the _easiest_ one, but Castiel will not leave her family—and Dean—to deal with their struggles alone.

That leaves her where she started: will she back Uriel, or continue to serve Michael?

Castiel closes her eyes.

She wishes Anna were still here, for guidance and support. If Anna were here she suspects she would have a third option: side with Uriel, or Michael, or Anna. Although, Anna had indicated hope that Castiel would join Uriel. Maybe Anna would have joined him, if she were still here. Maybe it's what she would suggest Castiel do, as well.

But Anna also said to trust herself, to trust her sense of right and wrong. Helping Uriel kill Dean seems wrong. Helping Michael kill Luke seems wrong. Running seems wrong.

Castiel lets out a heavy sigh, reaching up to undo her hair from its bun in hopes of relieving a worsening headache.

She needs another option. She needs a way of protecting everyone without harming anyone. Uriel would tell her to come down off her cloud, if he could hear her now. Anna, though—Anna has told her to trust herself.

There has to be another option. She had felt similar to how she does now upon being asked to kill Anna, and she hadn't thought there was any other way then—but there was. Now that she's stopped thinking as if following orders is the only possibility, there _has_ to be something else she can do.

What would Dean do? Castiel has considered Anna's opinion, and Uriel's, and Michael's, but not Dean's.

Dean would likely insult the sanity of Castiel's family, and then suggest they go to Hawaii. 

Castiel finds herself with a small smile on her lips at the memory of Dean's eagerness to travel when she'd heard they were going after Anna.

But running isn't an option, Castiel has established that she can't just leave everyone behind...

It's so simple.

It's so, _so_ simple.

Castiel is new to thinking freely like this, so she will forgive herself for not coming to the obvious conclusion sooner.

She stands as she thinks, checking the time (eight fourteen) and pulling her smallest suitcase from under her bed.

As long as she takes Dean with her, she can run. Michael will be left without the information he needs to reach Luke. Uriel will not have to work against him. Dean will be safe from both of them. And Castiel will be... well, she isn't quite sure yet.

Her veins run hot and agitated as she fills her bag and changes out of her sleep clothes. She wears one of the two pairs of jeans that she owns, light blue, and fitted but flexible. She hesitates before wearing only a loose t-shirt, baggy enough to conceal the gun in her waistband, casual so as not to draw even the small amount of attention a suit jacket would garner. She hides as many weapons on her body as she can, and tucks a couple spare knives and a spare gun into her bag. It occurs to her almost too late to grab spare clothes for Dean, as well, and by the time she's fitted them into her bag, it's eight twenty-one and she's ready to leave.

Leaving the bag on her bed, she takes three neckties from her drawer and pulls the bedroom door quietly open.

Then she frowns.

"Rachel?" she whispers.

The hall is quiet, and lit only by the dim overhead lights spaced out on the ceiling. Rachel is not outside the door. _No one_ is outside the door.

Castiel is thrown, and almost tempted to step back inside and forget about the whole thing.

But Anna told her to trust herself once she decided what was right. Dean will smile when Castiel tells her they're leaving.

Castiel retreats back into her room just long enough to grab her bag and drop the unneeded ties, and closes the door behind her when she leaves. The hallways are all as quiet and empty as the first one. Castiel pauses to take off her shoes, and holds the handle of the bag with three fingers, the shoes with her other two. Her free hand itches to hold her knife, but being spotted with a bag is less incriminating than being spotted with a bag and a weapon.

It's not strange for the halls to be empty, but it _is_ strange that no one was outside her door, and Castiel opens the door to the basement with nerves making her heart run fast. She takes the steps quickly, mind moving just as fast; she'll set her bag and shoes down at the foot of the stairs, and if Dean is asleep, cover her mouth before waking her up. She will explain what's going on, release her, and they will leave—

There was no one outside Castiel's door, but there is someone outside _Dean's_.

"Hello, Castiel."

Castiel dips her head, nerves crawling up her throat and making her feel sick. "Uriel," she greets. He will approve of her plan, won't he? She's not sure her judgement of him can be trusted, given that she had no idea he was working against Michael.

"What are you doing here?" He sounds bemused. Better than angry, at least.

"I was... I..." Castiel takes a breath. Uriel expected that Castiel would let Anna live, and he let her work the job anyway. That would indicate that he's likely to approve of this plan. Castiel clenches her right hand into a fist, focusing as much nervous energy as she can into one outlet. "I'm leaving," she states. "And I'm taking Dean with me."

There's a long, long moment where it's impossible to tell what Uriel's thinking. He observes Castiel coolly, not saying a word, for enough time that Castiel feels her palms beginning to sweat.

Then he nods. She might be imagining it, but she thinks he's almost, almost smiling. "All right," he says. He steps aside from the door.

Castiel blinks. "You're... okay with this?"

Now he's smiling. He reaches up to squeeze her shoulder, just once, and he nods again.

The smile fades. "You caught the motion sensor outside your door, I assume?"

Panic thunders in Castiel's chest. "What? No, I didn't. I didn't know..."

Uriel's face has turned from accepting to grim in a span of seconds. "Then you'd best hurry," he says. 

Castiel hurries.

The hinges of Dean's door are silent and smooth when Castiel pushes it open, and Castiel is glad of it, because Dean does appear to be sleeping. Shoes discarded with her bag, Castiel steps forward on silent, socked feet, and fits her right hand over Dean's mouth.

It's enough to wake her. She struggles, twists up to a sitting position, and grabs at Castiel's arm, stopping once she realizes who it is. Then she frowns stormily. Castiel holds a finger to her own lips, and Dean rolls her eyes, nodding.

"What the Hell, Cas?" she hisses as soon as Castiel removes her hand. At least she keeps her voice quiet.

"We're leaving," Castiel says, and turns to the door.

"Hang on, what?"

"We're leaving," Castiel repeats. "Come on."

Dean stands, but then stands still, looking at Castiel with something like admiration. "Stickin' it to the man, huh?" A small frown finds Castiel's face, and Dean shakes her head. She's smiling. "Never mind. Let's go."

Castiel retrieves her bag and her shoes before they climb the stairs, Dean likewise carrying her boots in her hand. It's convenient that she'd been sleeping in jeans, although Castiel feels some amount of guilt that she probably hadn't been provided with anything else to sleep in.

Dean lets out a loud, slow whistle when they enter the garage, despite Castiel's best attempts to shush her. "Man, look at this place." She's a child in a sweetshop, hurrying from car to car, passing some with merely a glance and devoting loving caresses to others. Castiel, meanwhile, checks the car closest to the garage doors, and goes hunting for the keys to match it.

She nearly bumps into Dean halfway down the wall of keys, and gives her a sharp look. Dean raises her hands innocently. There's a set of keys dangling from her fingers.

"Dean," Castiel starts, but Dean is pleading with her eyes, and Castiel knows how stubborn she can be, and they can't afford to lose time arguing.

"Fine," Castiel sighs. "Get it running."

Dean's grin is a flash of bright teeth before she's off, heading to a car thankfully not far from the exit, but... much more conspicuous than is wise. Castiel clenches her jaw as she tosses her bag into the backseat, glaring at the sleek black of the door as she slams it shut.

She slides into the passenger seat to see Dean feeling up the steering wheel, wide grin overtaking her whole face. "Man," she says. "Wow. A sixty-seven Chevy." She turns to Castiel in mock accusation. "You've been holding out on me this whole time!"

Not bothering to resist an eye-roll, Castiel motions for her to start the car, tapping her fingers impatiently on her legs as Dean pulls them up to the garage doors. She hops out quickly, hitting the button that opens the doors with a rumble, and is back into the car as soon as she can be. "Go. Go!"

Dean pulls them around the house, and Castiel slows her breathing as they traverse the extensive driveway. No one has come after them yet. Castiel will open the gates using the power box on the fence beside them, circumventing their need for Chuck, who is, this late in the evening, most likely halfway to drinking himself into a stupor. It's doubtful he'll be alert enough to stop them; even if he is, Castiel reckons she can have the gate open before he has time to do anything about it.

Castiel is out of the car before Dean has brought it to a full stop, running for the control box.

Chuck slides his window open. "You're not supposed to be here," he slurs, but doesn't make any move to stop them. Castiel opens the box, fingers fumbling with the wires. "What are you doing?" Chuck mumbles. "Where are you going?"

"Hey. Yeah, Cas. Where are we going?"

Castiel would glare at Dean, had she the time. "Don't know yet!" she calls.

"Makin' it up as we go, huh?" Castiel imagines Dean is grinning, and lets the thought infuse her with new, hopeful energy.

She squints at the control box. The wires are hard to distinguish in the fast-fading light.

There. There! The gates swing slowly inward with a dull, mechanized hum.

"Go! Dean, go!"

The Impala surges forward with a rumble, clearing the gates as soon as they're open far enough. Dean lets out a whoop. Castiel, smiling, turns from the fence to follow her—and sees the gates already closing again.

"Chuck!" she yells, jogging in the direction of the gate building. "Hey!"

It's not Chuck.

Castiel freezes in place.

The door to the gate building opens, and Michael steps out, straightening the sleeves of his suit and brushing off his dustless shoulders. He smiles at Castiel.

Over his shoulder, Chuck comes back into sight through the window, glasses lopsided and hair disheveled. He's blinking, bleary, confused.

"Hello, little sister."

"Cas?" Dean calls from the other side of the gate. Castiel doesn't risk turning, just waves a hand.

"Go! I'll give you a head start!"

"Cas—"

" _Go_!"

She hears not-so-muffled cursing, and the slam of a car door, and then the car engine starts up again. She lets herself take a breath of relief.

"Michael," she says, inclining her head. Maybe she can get back to the power box, or the gate building. Michael must see her eyes shift, for he comes closer, placing himself between her and the now-closed gates and forcing her to turn to keep him in sight.

"I wouldn't have expected this from you, Castiel."

Castiel lifts her chin, and says nothing.

Michael cuts an imposing figure in the dusky light, his suit crisp black over his thin frame, his eyes dark, long shadows making him look taller than he is. He's a thorough blockage of the gates. It's worse that the gates are right there—her escape is right there, just behind him, and she has no hope of making it now.

At least Dean will be safe. And without her as a pawn, Uriel and Luke will hopefully be safe as well. Castiel doesn't mind bearing Michael's wrath, if it means her family will be all right.

"I would've suspected Anna, maybe, or Uriel—but you, Castiel... I always thought you'd be loyal to the breaking point."

Castiel stares at him, at her oldest brother, and holds her silence.

"Never even seemed to have an original thought—made you an excellent operative, but, _mm_ , made you rather lacking in interest." Michael looses a short laugh, one that makes Castiel's spine tingle with discomfort. "Look how wrong I was!"

He takes a step backward, and he's leaning on the gates now, blocking Castiel's way and being smug about it.

Castiel does not regret her choices. She's made very few choices of her own in this life, and this one, especially, she is proud of. 

Having Michael belittle her is not so enjoyable, though.

Whole body thrumming anxious energy, Castiel crouches and draws the knife from the sheath on her ankle. She rises with an easy motion, knife familiar and comforting in her grip.

Michael raises his eyebrows. "Really, Castiel?"

Castiel closes her eyes for just one moment. She knows she's no match for Michael in a fight. She will not come out of this with her life.

She lets herself think of Anna, and of Uriel, and of a child named Lilith whom she's never met, and of Dean—Dean's smile—and she knows, _knows_ that she's done the right thing. It will cost her her life now, but that's all right. Castiel has made peace with herself. Anna would be proud.

Her eyes are dry when she opens them, and she holds her knife steady as she meets Michael's gaze.

Castiel steps forward to meet her brother at the gates she will never again pass through, hand tight around her knife, and she smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: injuries/blood; hospitals (probably not hard to skip if you need); a quick, un-detailed sentence involving needles

"Fuck," Dean mutters. Her hands flex on the steering wheel. " _ _Fuck__."

She shakes her head, fighting not to acknowledge the itch to turn around. The car is a gorgeous thrum of machinery beneath her, and she's  _free_  for the first time in months, and by all means, she should be thrilled.

Why the fuck isn't she thrilled?

" _Fuck_!" she says again, because it feels good.

She drives, and she drives, and driving always relaxes her, but Cas is back there, Cas is still fucking back there, and how the fuck is she leaving Cas behind? God, what an ungrateful dick she is. Cas saves her ass—more than once, it's worth noting—and when it comes down to it, what does Dean do? Dean fucking leaves her. With her ass of a fucking  _brother_ , who'll probably fucking  _torture_  her before she dies, and fuck, Dean is such a dick.

When driving a sixty-seven Chevy Impala isn't enough to ease her mood, something is definitely very, very wrong.

Dean grips the wheel with hands so tight they start to ache. She clenches her jaw. She'd told Cas that the reason she didn't mind dying, the reason she wouldn't bother escaping, was because there was nothing out there for her anymore, not after Sam. It's not true anymore.

Except that in about five seconds it's gonna be true again, because Cas is about to be gone too, and then she'll have nothing again.

"Fuck. Son of a  _fucking_  bitch," Dean says, and yanks the car around in an abrupt U-turn. Everything's been taken from her, and she is  _not_  about to let go of the one person that gave her some semblance of family again.

Her fingers tap an agitated beat against the wheel as she careens back in the direction she came. By her best estimate, she's about seven miles away from the big house.

Great. Okay. That leaves about seven minutes to come up with some sort of plan.

Dean checks her speedometer.

Maybe six minutes.

Cas talked about Michael like she was scared of him. She talked like he was this intangible, all-powerful being. Man, big brother did a number on his siblings, that's for sure. Still, chances are that Michael  _is_  pretty formidable, and Dean should be prepared for a hard fight.

She'll have to be smart about it. He didn't look much bigger than her, but that means he'll be fast, too, and the muscle under that suit of his promised long hours of training. If he gets her one-on-one, she probably won't stand a chance—not of overpowering him and getting Cas outta there, anyway.

That leaves taking him down from far away. Dean's a decent shot, it shouldn't be a problem... no, except that Cas might be fighting him, and if they're too close for her to get a clean hit, no way Dean's pulling the trigger.

Dean takes a deep breath in through her nose and exhales, "fuck."

Cas deserves a better plan than that. God, Cas deserves so much more than what Dean can give her. She had her whole fucking world flipped over in the span of a few weeks, and she still managed to get Dean out of there safely.

The adrenaline of their not-quite-escape hasn't yet begun to fade, but panic overtakes it, driving Dean's heart to a fast, uncomfortable throb. Her hands, if she doesn't grip the steering wheel hard enough, shake lightly with nervous energy. 

Okay.

Okay.

Dean squeezes the wheel and swallows hard, forcing herself to isolate the panic, keep it away from her thoughts. Her heart is still a violent escape-artist in her chest, and her stomach twists with nerves, but she blanks her mind enough to think.

Okay.

If she's got a clear shot on Michael, she'll take it.

If Cas is still up and fighting, her best bet is to join her somehow, but she can't afford to let Michael know she's coming, and she can't afford to distract Cas before she's there to help. Walking will suit her better; she'll have to park a ways away and come up on foot. It'll give her a chance to evaluate the situation, and she can still shoot Michael from the road. If she can't get him though, she'll have to find a way through the gates, or over the fence... If they're not too close to the gates, could she drive right through? It could distract Cas, sure, but it might catch Michael off guard, too.

It'd be risky. She'd lose time walking back to the car, and who knows what could change by the time she's back with her gate-smashing Chevy?

This is so fucked up. How the fuck is she gonna get Cas out?

She's gotta be close now; that bend in the road seems like it means she's close (although, she's thought that about the last three curves, so maybe it's not an accurate assumption).

She takes the bend at a risky speed, then brings the Impala down to a crawl.

She is close. The gates are just up ahead and to the right; she'd have to turn to get into Michael's driveway, which means anyone inside won't be able to see her until she's right at the gates, and that's good.

Dean's knuckles are bleached white with her death-hold on the wheel. If she still believed in any God, she'd send up a prayer for Cas's safety—as it is, all she can do is hope. Well, she can hope, and she can draw the gun from her waistband (Cas gave her the thing before they were even out on the road, smart fucker), and she can do her fucking best to save Cas herself.

A grim little smile finds her lips with those thoughts. She likes that. No God, no last desperate pleas—just her, and her gun, and her determination to save that ridiculous self-sacrificing girl.

Okay.

Dean reminds herself to keep breathing, and stops the car.

Has she been too loud already? Does Michael already know someone is here? Is he just waiting around the corner, gun drawn?

She hopes not. Still can't do anything but hope.

Her breath comes too fast and her hands are unsteady as she steps forward, checks her gun. She'll peek around the corner and see if she's got a shot on Michael. If so, she'll shoot. If not, she'll find a way over the wall and join Cas; two against one gives them a good chance of getting free.

It's getting harder to see in the progressive dimness of evening shifting into night, and Dean squints a little as she starts forward, moving quickly.

Her hand feels sweaty on her gun, but she has a good grip. Her boots are quiet on the asphalt. As her legs brush together with each step, her jeans make more noise than she would like, but there's nothing to be done about that now. (She might consider storming in there and saving Cas while pants-less, but she doesn't have the time to undress. Also, that would be stupid, no matter how amusing.)

Her heart crawls higher into her throat as she gets closer and closer to the gates. She's halfway to them, moving fast—she freezes, gun jerked to the ready, at the sound of the mechanized gates buzzing open.

Is Cas done for? Is Michael coming out to search for Dean?

Did Cas run back and grab a car of her own after brilliantly defeating her brother?

Dean is paralyzed in the street, unsure whether to run for the car or run for the gates.

Cas makes the decision for her.

"Dean!"

She's wild-eyed, wheeling around the corner, flying faster on her feet than Dean's ever seen her go.

"Cas?"

There's blood on her forehead, the gray of her t-shirt soaked through on her side.

" _Cas_! Are you okay?" Dean's feet are still anchored to the ground, but she lowers her gun. Cas's appearance does nothing to calm her shakiness.

"The car, Dean." Cas is out of breath, voice rough.

"Cas, what..."

" _Get back to the car_!" Cas yells, and Dean doesn't hesitate again. She's got no clue what's going on, but making Cas explain while she's running would just be rude; she'll trust her on this one.

Cas catches up with her before they reach the car. If possible, she looks worse up close. She's got a hand pressed to her bloody side; her breathing isn't quite right; her footfalls are fast but her teeth are gritted like each step is excruciating.

"Fuck," Dean exhales, forcing herself faster. Her lungs burn, her legs burn, her heart is much too fast with panic and exertion and confusion.

She can't breathe by the time they're at the car. She takes in great gasps of air, chest heaving, hand shaking as she yanks the door open.

"What happened?" she manages.

Cas throws herself into the passenger seat. Her hands are shaking like crazy.

"Cas! What happened?"

Cas shakes her head.

Dean huffs, and leans over, grabbing for Cas's seatbelt—but Cas slaps her hand away.

" _Go_ ," she insists, "drive!"

Dean obeys, but with a curse under her breath. "Cas, I'm serious," she yanks the car into forward, spinning the wheel to head back the way she'd come, "what the fuck happened?"

"Chuck," Cas manages. For just a split second, Dean tears her eyes away from the road to look at her, and she swears again. There's no color in Cas's face. "Michael—we, we were fighting, and Chuck—the gate... Michael was in front of the gate and Chuck..." Cas starts to chuckle, but stops immediately, wincing. "He opened the gates and they hit Michael in the back. Gave me just enough of a break to—to run; Dean, you have to drive faster." There's urgency in Cas's voice, and Dean glances at her again.

"Fuck, Cas, stop that. You're gonna fuck up your side even more." She's twisted in her seat to stare out the back window, a hand pressed to her side, which is still leaking a terrifying amount of blood.

"Michael—he's—Dean, faster."

"What?" Dean checks her rearview. " _Fuck_. Come on, really?"

There's a suited figure driving a crappy Honda Civic after them, hands tight on the steering wheel and expression grim.

Dean punches the dashboard. "I can't believe that son of a bitch." She hesitates, looks at Cas again. "Cas..." Cas's eyes have closed. Her expression still looks pained enough to reassure Dean that she's awake, and she raises an eyebrow at her name. "You need medical attention, man. And not, like, in the next town—you need help  _now_."

Cas shakes her head. "Keep going," she grates out.

"Damn it, Cas."

She adjusts her hold on the steering wheel, working her jaw. She's not gonna let Cas fucking bleed out just because she was too stubborn to stop.

"Cas—"

"No."

Dean grits her teeth. She checks her mirror, winces, leans into the pedal. They're careening down the road way too fast for safety, taking each bend at speeds likely to kill everyone involved if they hit another car.

Dean's heart is blocking her airway. Cas's breathing doesn't sound so good either. 

Dean chews on her lip. "All right," she says finally. Michael is gaining—barely, but he is. "Here's the deal. You listening?" She looks at Cas to make sure that the asshole hasn't fucking passed out yet, and Cas, though alarmingly pale, nods a little. Dean nods back. "Okay. You're either gonna convince me that we can patch you up without stopping, or I'm gonna stop this car right now and fight that dickbag myself."

Cas's eyes flick open wide. "No, Dean—you can't, he'll—"

"What, are you gonna stop me?"

Cas looks like she's gonna say yes, stubborn son of a bitch.

"You're gonna stop me? _You_?" Dean looks away from the road long enough to give Cas's side a pointed look.

"I... yes," Cas says.

Dean rolls her eyes. "Oh, come on. What could you possibly— _hey_! What the Hell are you doing?"

"Stopping you," Cas murmurs.

Dean's gonna get whiplash jerking her eyes from the road to Cas from Cas to the road from the road to Cas—but what the fuck is she doing? She stole Dean's gun, and now she's opening the window, and "Cas, what the  _fuck_!"

She's leaning out the Goddamn window (getting blood all over everything, Dean might add), using both hands to hold the gun level—and that can't fucking be good for her side, leaning her weight on it like that. Dean says as much, but Cas just growls, "Keep driving," and ignores her.

The backlash of her first shot shakes all the way up her unsteady arms, and Dean can barely hear.

"Cas!" she yells, but Cas either can't hear or doesn't care. "Damn it," Dean grumbles. Michael swerves in her rearview mirror as Cas shoots again, and Dean grits her teeth. "Cas—" she tries, just as Cas fires off a third shot. They tear around another corner at reckless speed, Michael a few yards further behind them. "Cas, how is this gonna work?" Cas doesn't answer, just keeps fucking bleeding out all over the car door. "Damn it," Dean says again, and eases up on the gas.

That gets Cas's attention. Eyes glazed with pain but bright and hard with determination, Cas whips around. " _Keep driving_!"

Jaw set, Dean lowers her foot to the break before they can round the next bend. She guides them away from the center of the road; Michael speeds past them, tires squealing as he starts to pull the car into a U-turn.

Things slow down.

Dean's heard about things going in slow motion in time of crisis, but she's never experienced it: not when Sam died; not when she made her own kills; not with Alastair.

It happens now. The headlights show first, a faint, initial glow from around the corner that grows into full lights that pierce Dean's eyes. Then the front bumper. It's a sizable enough car, probably heavy and with nice tires for snowy weather. Maybe its owner enjoys skiing. It's a light, metallic blue, its bumper a scuffed, dirt-tanned black. There's a low rush of tires. The sound of Michael's engine straining at such a high speed.

Everything lags into movie-quality slow mo; the bulk of the car rounds the corner; its bumper creeps forward; Michael's car keeps with its turn, moving slowly, slowly, too slow...

A drawn-out crash falls on disbelieving ears. Sparks, bright light as the headlights are smashed. Dean watches Michael's car crumple under the force of the the other car. They were both going much too fast.

Speed returns to the world.

The cars skid together several feet.

Dean realizes she's not breathing, and fixes it with a harsh, gasped-in breath.

Michael had turned just enough for the car to hit the front of the driver's side head-on; from here she can see him slumped forward.

"What have you done?" Cas murmurs. The gun shakes wildly in her hands.

Dean is motionless. Soundless. She feels cold. "I... nothing, I—"

Cas narrows her eyes. Her fingers lock tighter around the gun.

"Cas... I'm—I'm sorry about your brother..."

Cas shakes her head. 

"Cas, come on."

Blue eyes close for one second, two, and then she's moving fast: door open, feet out, body following too quickly for Dean to stop her.

"Cas!" She bangs on the steering wheel. Cas has already set off, walking on wobbly feet, with unsteady hands holding the gun out in front of her. "God damn it," Dean spits, and hastens out of the car. It's a jog to catch up. Cas's pace is quick, and somehow steady despite the instability of her legs. She walks with her jaw set resolutely.

"Cas, look at me."

Cas does not.

"Cas."

Nothing.

" _Cas_."

They near the collision, a hazy smoke drifting from some unseen broken thing. Cas's steps don't waver; her sneakered-feet fall unerringly amidst the farthest-thrown bits of wreckage. Dean picks her way through the glimmers of broken glass after Cas, moving with unsettled urgency.

"Listen to me, Cas! What are you doing?"

Cas approaches the damaged car with the untouched carelessness of a trained soldier, her eyes far away. Upon reaching the side of the car closest them, the one less damaged, she turns sharply to the right, picking along to the front of the car. With a rather undignified hopping jog, Dean follows.

"Come on, Cas. What's the goal here? What are you gonna do?"

It's like talking to someone deaf.

" _Cas_."

Cas rounds the head of the car and keeps walking. Helpless, Dean stops when she reaches the car, its damaged body between her and Cas. There is space for a person to stand near the driver's side window of Michael's car, in an acute angle formed by it and the other vehicle; it is here that Cas stops.

"Cas!" Dean tries again. Predictably, there is no response.

A minute passes. Maybe two.

Urgency dances in Dean's bones—she's always one for action, never one for standing around and contemplating—but she quells it as best she can. For the moment. It's reasonable that Cas needs a moment. Of course, if she fucking bleeds out before she's done with her consideration... With a huff, Dean crosses her arms. In her head, she begins a quick count to sixty. Once there, she will knock Cas over the head and drag her to a hospital, if necessary. 

Cas acts before Dean reaches sixty. Her mouth finally opens in speech. Her lips move only barely; her voice is a deathly low grate. "Michael," she says. Then, louder: "Michael!"

If he hears, he does not give response.

With a fair amount of restlessness, Dean waits.

"Michael?" Cas repeats.

There is no answer; there's not a single noise from the car.

The world has grown dark around them. The trees that line the road loom heavy and black on either side. Michael's headlights still shine, as do the Impala's from behind them.

When Cas speaks again, it's a throaty whisper. "Brother," is all she says.

Then, at speed, the gun is raised, the safety is off, her aim is fast and flawless—she shoots, and it echoes around the dark road.

Dean winces, half lurches forward, rocks back on her heels, hesitates. Cas is shaking all over, tremors visible even from here. Dean can't get a clear look at her face. The blood on her side shines grossly in the unforgiving headlights. Dean is rushing to her before her actions even register to her brain.

"Cas," she says, and again, "Cas,  _Cas_ , what the—you crazy bastard—you stupid son of a bitch." She reaches Cas's side and wraps her arms around her torso. Cas shakes hard against her. Dean can feel the warmth of the blood leaving her side. "Damn it, Cas," she murmurs, with no real malice. Cas shakes and shakes against her, and Dean coaxes her into movement, into walking back to the car.

Once inside its protective metal walls, Dean buckles both their seatbelts and announces: "All right, now we're taking you to the hospital."

Cas, stubborn  _stubborn_  son of a fucking bitch, shakes her head blearily. "It's not... bad," she manages. "Just—just a cut. Didn't hit anything important. Just... just stop the bleeding and it'll..." She swallows. "It'll be fine."

Dean shakes her head right back. "Cas, you'll need a transfusion or something—you've lost  _way_  too much blood. We're getting you to a hospital."

"Don't need..." Cas starts, and then falls silent. Yanking the car into gear, Dean gives her a worried look. Her eyes are open, still moving; she looks conscious, but her parted lips have frozen mid-sentence.

Dean's too fried to keep the worry out of her voice. "Cas? Cas, come on, man. Talk to me." Another look proves she's breathing, at least, just... unresponsive. With a muttered "God damn it," Dean pulls the car forward, dragging her eyes away from Cas only to circumnavigate the wrecked cars in the middle of the road. Once clear, her eyes are back to a desperate jump between Cas and the road, Cas and the road, Cas and the road. Cas, bloody, alert by appearance but nothing else; the road, dark and stretching out ahead of them, too long, too far. "Fuck," Dean says, yet again. She's used more language in the past hour than she has in the past month. She's conflicted. Does she keep driving and hope there's a hospital close by, or does she stop and try to fix Cas up herself? Which gives Cas a better chance of living through this? Dean grits her teeth and lays into the gas pedal, taking them around a few more corners before she stops.

Her boots are loud on the road as she steps out of the car, then quieter in the grass buffer as she pulls open the passenger door. Cas is still upright, at least. But that is a lot of blood. A  _lot_  of blood. Dean steps closer, reaches out, cursing at the shaking of her own hands.

"All right, you're all right," she says, voice low, soothing. She doesn't know if Cas can hear her. "Come on, we're gonna patch you up, okay?" There's not a nod of affirmation, not even a weakly muttered agreement—but that's expected. Dean keeps talking anyway, pretending she can't hear the unsteadiness of her own voice. "I'm just gonna—gonna get a look, okay? Okay." Cas's shirt is tacky with coagulating blood. Pressing her lips together, Dean peels the ruined fabric up from Cas's skin. It doesn't give her a much better idea of the damage: Cas's skin is too messy with blood. Maybe, though, she can see the source of it... There, it looks like. Clenching her jaw, Dean steps back and tugs her belt free of its loops. "Gotta stop the bleeding, okay? Then we can get you to a hospital."

A moment passes in Dean's hesitation. It's slower now, but blood is still sliding free of Cas's body.

"Okay," Dean says. She talks more for her own comfort than Cas's, at this point. "Okay, we can fix this." She manages a makeshift bandage, consisting of a couple clean shirts from Cas's bag bunched up and held tight to her wound by Dean's belt. It looks ridiculous. Dean hopes it can save her fucking life.

"Okay," she says again. "Okay." She wipes shaking hands on her jeans, leaving rusty red marks behind.

With as much calmness as she can muster, she climbs back into the car, takes the wheel, and speeds them to the nearest town.

 

Dean's butt aches.

Hospital chairs are real friggin' uncomfortable.

She barely notices, though.

The doctor told her Cas was gonna be fine. She's sleeping now, but she's gonna be okay. They gave her a blood transfusion, gave Dean an overview of her injuries and their severity, and left the two of them alone when Dean didn't seem keen to answer any of their questions. Questions such as:  _How did your friend get that nasty stab wound?_  and  _Are either of you on any drugs?_

They told her Cas was gonna be fine. She was a little distracted while the doctor gave her the details, but she picked up:  _didn't hit anything vital_ , and  _in shock, but fine_ , and  _should recover fully after a blood transfusion_. 

They  _told_  her Cas was gonna be fine, but Cas is just lying there, bright eyes closed, strong body limp, and Dean keeps forgetting the doctor's reassuring words. They don't help, even when she can remember them;  _gonna be fine, gonna be fine, gonna be fine_ , she reminds herself, but it doesn't quite reach the part of her brain taking in Cas's pale skin and slow breathing.

It's probably because of this unshakable worry that Dean is lunging up out of that uncomfortable fucking chair the  _second_  Cas's eyelids start to twitch.

"Cas?" she breathes. It's with shaking hands that she reaches out... but then hesitates, reluctant to touch lest she cause Cas further pain. "Cas?"

Blue eyes fly open, wide and disoriented for one second; then they narrow in suspicion. "Dean," she says. 

"Cas, you're..." Dean lets out a delirious little laugh. "You're okay."

Cas surveys the room with a dissatisfied squint. "I thought I said no hospitals." Her voice is even a little rougher than usual, her lips dry around the words.

"Hey, I was right to bring you here. You needed a blood transfusion."

Perhaps for lack of a good argument, Cas settles into a disgruntled silence. Uncertain of their current standing, Dean just sorta... hangs out, an awkward, quiet presence beside Cas's bed.

Hospitals are noisier than Dean has ever realized. A steady parade of visitors and doctors and nurses go by the closed door, their voices all joining in a muffled river of sound. Someone's keyboard clatters arrhythmically from somewhere outside. If Dean holds her breath, she can hear the tiny, high-pitched  _drip drip drip_  of Cas's IV fluids.

Cas's voice brings her attention back. "Victor Henricksen is likely still looking for you, you know. Bringing me to a medical institution was unwise."

"Come on, Cas. Give me some credit. It's not like I gave them your real name."

Cas's eyebrows lift. With a shrug, Dean hands her the folder from the foot of her bed. Cas scans a few lines. "Jamie Novak?" She looks up at Dean, who shrugs again. Looking back to the medical papers, Cas seems to be considering. "I like it," she decides.

She peruses the rest of her folder, seeming to take in the medical jargon with ease. When done, she snaps the folder closed and nods. "Good," she says. "As I told you, it wasn't severe. We should be able to leave right away."

"Hey, hey, whoa." Dean steps forward to block Cas from getting out of bed. "Wait just a minute, okay?"

"We don't have a minute. We need to leave."

"Cas, take a breath. Listen to me for a sec." 

Looking seriously grumpy about it, Cas complies.

"Okay. They don't have your real name. You just nearly bled out in the middle of the road. We have no idea where we're going. Let's just... take a minute, okay? Figure things out before we run."

With a grumbled "Yes, all right," Cas concedes.

"Good. Okay. So, where are we gonna go?"

Cas thinks a moment. Hesitantly, she offers: "We could stop at Ruby's house for at least a night. It won't be safe for long—it'd be the first place my family would look, if they came after us—but it should be safe for now. We can regroup, make sure we have all the supplies we might need."

"She'd let us stay the night?"

"She's not home, at the moment."

Dean blinks. "Oh. Okay then, good, that's good. Uh, the Impala's still out front—"

"We'd be best off leaving it behind."

"—and there's no way we're ditching her, so we've got our ride lined up already. They tossed your clothes before I could stop them—not that I would've—but I brought up some clean ones from your bag. And... is that it?"

Answering with action, Cas nods, and begins trying to stand up again.

Dean presses her gently back down by the shoulders. "Hey, calm down, buddy." Cas glares up at her, and Dean hesitates. "Are you sure you're okay to move?"

"Dean, I'm fine." There's suppressed fire lurking under Cas's voice, and Dean gives in.

"Yeah, okay. Let's get this IV outta your arm first though, okay? Okay." Holding Cas's forearm securely in one hand, Dean peels up one corner of the tape holding the needle to her arm. Cas's lips are pressed tightly together. "Sorry," Dean murmurs. Cas shakes her head.

"Just rip it off quickly," she insists.

Dean snorts. "Figures you'd be a bandaid ripper." At Cas's vaguely perplexed expression, Dean shakes her head. "Don't worry about it." Then she rips. Cas grits her teeth. "Good?"

"Good," Cas affirms.

"Okay. Now this needle... Uh, hang on, lemme find... here." Cotton ball at the ready, she eases the IV needle from Cas's arm; Cas takes the cotton ball from her, holding it against the spot of blood. Dean blows out a breath. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes, Dean."

"Okay. Let's get you outta here, huh?"

 

Ruby's house is just as Dean remembers, though without its owner around it has a distinct feeling of cold emptiness. She refuses to let Cas carry the bag inside, instead taking it herself, and then sits Cas down on a kitchen stool while she pokes around in the cabinets.

"Man, she left in kind of a rush, huh?" There's still dried food in the pantry and meals in the freezer; only the refrigerator has been emptied.

"She went with Anna. I presume they left quickly."

Dean nods, and sets about pulling together some dinner.

They eat in silence. They don't have much to talk about, aside from all the things they're avoiding mentioning. They leave half of Ruby's kitchen lights off, just because. Her kitchen is softer without all its bright lighting; the overhead strip lights they have on are weak and gentle. Their pasta is warm, as is the tomato sauce, which had been unopened in the cabinet. Cas is not as pale as she was before. The adrenaline of their narrow escape is starting to dissipate; Dean's fork feels heavier each time she lifts it to her mouth. Cas has finished one plate of pasta and is halfway through her second by the time Dean speaks.

"Look," she says, watching Cas twirl another bite neatly onto her fork, "I know we have a lot of stuff to sort out, but is there any chance of convincing you to wait until morning? I need some sleep, man."

"That seems reasonable," Cas agrees. She chews her pasta sedately.

"Really? You're not gonna lecture me about fleeing the state as soon as possible?"

Cas lifts her shoulders in a slight shrug, and this is how they end up leaving their dishes in the sink, their bags on Ruby's kitchen floor, and stumbling off to inspect the bedrooms. At Cas's insistence that she doesn't mind either bed, Dean takes Ruby's room: it has a TV.

"I guess this is... goodnight, then," Dean says. A frown hints at her lips. "Might be the last good night's sleep we get for a while, huh?"

"Possibly, yes."

The hall lights are turned off, but the overhead light in Ruby's bedroom is on behind Dean; it illuminates Cas standing in the hallway, but only softly, leaving her half in shadow. She looks exhausted, but not nearly so much like she's about to die. Which, you know, is good.

Dean clears her throat. "You, uh. Gonna be okay? Do we need to figure out how to change your bandages, or anything?"

"It can wait until morning," Cas assures her. "Thank you."

"Mmhm." She's reluctant to step back into the room and close the door. "And, uh. Thanks." Dean makes a vague gesture. "I know it wasn't easy to... uh." Another vague gesture. Dean shakes her head. "Look, you saved my ass back there. More than once. And you know I'm grateful, right? I mean, I get that it was... a big deal, and all. For you to leave." She draws in a breath, flashes a smile; Cas is as impossible to read as ever. Uncomfortable, Dean rubs at the back of her neck.

She's looking thoughtfully at the floor, getting ready to retreat into the bedroom, when Cas steps forward, bare feet quiet on the thinly-carpeted floor. Dean looks up. A steady hand cups her jaw; a warm, nervous thrill goes through her chest. Cas takes another step forward. Ever intense, Cas's gaze falls upon her. Dean is acutely aware of the warmth of the hand at her cheek. Cas seems to be considering, asking—Dean leans in, eyes open to see Cas blink once, twice, then close her eyes as Dean's lips press solidly against hers.

It's not prolonged.

Just a second-long kiss, lips against lips, Cas's eyes closed, Dean's open.

They break apart, blinking. Hesitantly, Dean smiles. For the space of a moment, Cas remains unreadable—then a smile breaks over her lips, slow and small but genuine, and Dean leans in again, hand rising to pull Cas in by the back of the neck as their eyes lock and their lips meet. Cas's hands are warm on her cheek and at her waist, tugging her closer, closer; Dean clutches at Cas's hair, is careful to leave her injured side untouched. It's a kiss full of relief, and renewed adrenaline. It's Cas's heart beating hard against Dean's chest, saying _we're alive, we're alive, we're alive_. Everything has fallen apart, but this, this moment, this closeness, feels like everything is starting to fall back together.

Both of their lives have fallen completely to pieces. They have no idea where they're going next. They barely survived their first night on the run, and many more will follow.

But this... this is  _something_. For the first time in a long time, Dean feels like somehow, everything is gonna be okay.


End file.
